A Woman True and Fair
by The S
Summary: What might Howl's Moving Castle have been like if the 3rd person narration had been biased toward Howl's point of view instead of Sophie's? This is an exercise in what if. Current chapter: 26, Tea Party of the Damned. [updated 10.31.07]
1. Howell discovers an exquisite challenge

**Title:** A Woman True and Fair  
**Characters:** Sophie, Michael, Calcifer, Howl  
**Genre:** Fantasy/Humour  
**Rating:** K+  
**WARNING:** SPOILERS.  
If you have not read Diana Wynne Jones' _Howl's Moving Castle_, DO NOT READ THIS FANFIC. It will spoil the entire novel for you. This fic is intended as an amusing "what if" accompaniment to the book, not as a replacement for the original.  
**Author's Note:** This picks up from Howl's entrance in chapter 4 of HMC: _In which Sophie discovers several strange things._

Further notes at the end of the story.

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**A Woman True and Fair **

**Chapter 1:** _In which Howell discovers an exquisite challenge_

The truth was, she had intrigued him ever since Howell had returned home that morning from another fruitless day of working and wenching to find a young woman wearing 90-year-old skin cooking breakfast over Calcifer. He'd known immediately that he'd seen her somewhere before. For all his self-absorption, Howell never forgot a face, especially one with which he had previously fallen in love (it was safer to remember one's enemies). Sophie had lied to him then, claiming, "I am a total stranger." But the startled look on her wrinkled old face told a different story.

_I see,_ thought Howell to himself, cleverly. _You recognise me, but I'm not allowed to recognise you, is that it? What a splendid game! Of course, you shan't win._

What had concerned him more than ferreting out who she really was at the time, however, had been her unheard of subjection of Calcifer. Howell always took careful note of those few people to whom his disembodied heart warmed. But this woman had not only got its attention and cooperation, but appeared to have utterly domesticated it over the course of the single day he had been absent; a disturbing thought indeed. And why had his heart reacted in such a remarkable, dramatic way to this dishonest young woman who'd entered his home clothed in a spell both powerful and complex?

To be honest -- and he did not like to be -- though he did not have one, Howell was a hopeless romantic at heart. This unthinkable display with Calcifer, the way he'd known her at first sight (though not from whence), the fact that the curse which had undoubtedly brought her to him had been cast by his most recent (and unfortunate) paramour, all of these things added up to something Howell could not avoid. Was it possible he had finally encountered the woman who could put an end to his loveless life? Had Fate arranged that she be deposited on his very doorstep? Howell was instantly in love with the idea. But there was much to do before he could be certain.

The first thing to be done was to take off that curse and get a good look at her. (Actually, that was probably not the **first** thing to be done, but Howell wanted to do it first in any case.) From the way she had aged, it was obvious she was a great beauty and Howell, considering himself quite the connoisseur of such things, was eager to see just how lovely she would be restored to her natural age. It was like presents at Christmas. Howell had never been any good at enduring the suspense until Christmas morning. He wanted to know what his present was _now_.

The quickest way to get the spell off her was to link to Calcifer, which he did forthwith. In hindsight, Howell could admit he'd shoved her out of the hearth a bit rudely in his eagerness to get to Calcifer and unwrap his present. Still, she was none the worse for wear, and it was terribly considerate of him to have taken over the cooking, so Howell felt he could be forgiven.

As no one attested more often than Howell himself, he was dreadfully clever. One of the ways in which this manifested itself was his ability to do several things at once – flawlessly and subtly. He could search for Ben Sullivan while appearing to merely be courting young ladies across the countryside. He could work in secret on a commission for the king while tactfully avoiding the aftermath of yet another affair gone bad and generously providing Michael and Calcifer with a diversion. And he could anchor a multi-dimensional gateway in four different locations at once **and** evade the Witch of the Waste **and** run two businesses **and** keep up with his scholarly journals at home **and** do odd jobs for the king **and** still find time to be the best-dressed and most stunningly handsome and gifted wizard in two worlds.

Howell had employed his talent for multitasking as he'd cooked that morning, feeding Calcifer while he questioned Sophie in order to distract her while he used the fire demon's power to get a closer look at her curse. As ill luck would have it, the curse was a fearsome thing involving not only the powerful magic and vindictive spirit of the Witch of the Waste, but also a pervasive and deceptively subdued magic Howell did not recognise. In short, there were several layers and they would take even him time to sort through. Howell was not going to get to see his present any time soon.

He had just begun to work himself into a wretched sulk over being made to wait when Sophie called him wicked for the very first time, a comment he'd found both insulting and charming. Somehow, with this woman, he was capable of feeling both at once, which was also very intriguing. Moreover, she had called him a young man, which greatly amused him as he was certain her true age was at least five years his junior, probably more. Yet she insisted on playing the part of the disapproving old granny. What an interesting, beguiling, amusing woman.

Howell had spent their first breakfast together pondering these things and artfully dodging the barrage of questions Sophie threw at him. His proud tradition of avoiding giving a straight answer wherever possible seemed to vex her immensely. Feigning apathy, Howell watched her from the corner of his eye, concluding that she was probably the high-spirited, fiery-tempered type. The type that one could _honestly_ say was beautiful when she was angry. This was an exquisite revelation, as Howell was particularly fond of that type of woman – unfortunately. It had been his penchant for passionate women that had first attracted him to the Witch of the Waste.

When they were finishing breakfast and it was apparent that receiving no answers was insufficient deterrent to Sophie's endless string of questions, Howell took pity on her (and himself) and magnanimously instructed Michael to answer her. Really, her nosiness and curiosity seemed to know no bounds – something quite dangerous in a woman, in Howell's experience. It was as if she were trying to pin him down just as he was trying to work her out. Howell hated being pinned down more than he hated bad hair days – which was quite a lot.

It was very entertaining, however, to watch the comedy of Michael explaining how the castle worked to Sophie. It had been years since Howell had met a woman who could make him laugh. The way she seemed to take personal offense at the answers was especially charming. That was, until she turned her self-righteous old granny act on him again. High-spirited was right. Howell could see that if Sophie had any idea how amusing he found her, there was no telling what she'd do. He resolved to keep his laughter to himself for the time being, and retire to the bathroom while it was still safe.

This most interesting morning came to a delightful close with a rich payment from the king for the seven-league boots. Truly pleased with how things were going in spite of being made to wait for his present, Howell expertly sidestepped the disappointed and disapproving looks of Michael and Calcifer as he pocketed the gold by slipping away to make himself perfect for a renewed assault on Lettie Hatter.

While he showered and shaved and plucked and highlighted and coiffed and primped and increased his natural good looks with every last spell he'd ever discovered to do so, Howell thought about the tempting puzzle that awaited him on the other side of the bathroom door. There was something terribly familiar about the construction of Sophie's age-obscured face, but he couldn't quite make the connection. How bothersome.

At least he could count on ample opportunity to remember. Sophie had made it quite clear she was not about to leave, even if asked. Little did she know what his actual thoughts were on the matter, and that suited him quite nicely. Howell congratulated himself on his flawless duplicity and shining dishonesty. Sooner or later, the present would be his. Opening it had just become a new game all its own.

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**More Author's Notes:** The one line of dialogue in this belongs to DWJ. I could and would never claim it; I'm merely using it as a place-holder here.

I've chosen to use "Howell" instead of "Howl" because of the 3rd person narration bias. I don't believe Howl thinks of himself as "Howl" (or Wizard Pendragon or Sylvester Oak or Sorcerer Jenkin) in his _own_ mind; I think he thinks of himself as "Howell".

This is very much a work in progress. Feel free to criticise or point out whatever you like or don't. I don't guarantee changes to suit everyone, but I'm happy to listen.


	2. Apathy and the Amaryllis

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Sophie, Lettie, Mrs. Fairfax, Percival, Michael, Calcifer

**Rating:** T

**WARNING:** SPOILERS.

**Author's Notes: **This is the first of several chapters which will cover what happens in _HMC_ chapter five. Two weeks is an awful lot of time to account for, so I hope you will indulge me.

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**Chapter 2:** _Apathy and the Amaryllis_

Clean and suitably dashing once more, Howell opened the bathroom door on a most distressing scene. Either Sophie had decided to punish him for his alleged wickedness by clouding his home with dust and filth, or she had some very interesting ideas about what constituted cleaning. He couldn't even cross the room. Howell did not understand the inexplicable need women had to clean things which were perfectly fine as they were. He himself had developed the habit of not cleaning intentionally as a moral protest to his sister's constant nagging on the subject. Howell dearly hoped he had not just made the fatal error of allowing Megan's aged twin soul into his home.

He watched in horror as Sophie villainously beleaguered his peaceful arachnid population with a broom, necessitating his hasty retreat with a freshly-cleaned sleeve brandished to protect his immaculate hair from dust and cobwebs. No longer amused by the antics of the newest member of his household, his tone was less than pleasant when Howell spoke up on behalf of the innocent. "Stop it, woman! Leave those poor spiders alone!" His ill-temper was not improved when Sophie chose to argue the point with him, and Howell suddenly found himself in a debate over the fate of the insect residents of his home. Truly, she seemed to think having appointed herself his cleaning lady gave her the right to take over the house. Howell hated being cross. Why did she insist upon being so difficult?

Sophie's formidability provoked his natural cowardice, but Howell was just put out enough that he was able to find the courage to remind her whose home it was. That got him to the door, but he should have known it was too good to be true when she'd belayed her so-called cleaning without argument. Just as he'd got his hand on the doorknob, Sophie picked up her litany of nosy inquiry once more. By that point, Howell was too irritated to sidestep her questions in a civilised manner, and put an end to the subject far more gruffly (and directly) than he would have liked. To distract from the fact she'd ruffled him, he warned Sophie not to kill anything while he was gone before escaping out onto the heath and fleeing for his sanity. How on earth had the woman managed to insert herself into his household and turn it upside-down in a matter of hours? Perhaps it was the Witch of the Waste's curse finally catching up to him.

In order to make certain he was smoothed over and genteel once more before reaching Mrs. Fairfax's, Howell was forced to walk a good part of the distance to Upper Folding. Unfortunately when he arrived, his luck did not seem to have improved. Both Lettie and Mrs. Fairfax -- the latter of whom always gave him a warm welcome, even if the former did not -- were quite distracted with some unpleasant matter of animal husbandry involving a dog which had appeared on the grounds earlier that morning. Howell was quite certain the generous, tender-hearted nature Lettie demonstrated through her desire to look after the wretched animal – though she had yet to show _him_ anything of the kind – only endeared her to him further. However, he had no interest in soiling his expensive and freshly-cleaned garments -- not to mention his own sweet self -- by spending the day fawning over a filthy mongrel. Howell did not dislike dogs, but he preferred cats. Cats, he could relate to.

So instead, he waited patiently in the orchard, drinking pot after pot of the tea Mrs. Fairfax kept bringing him along with apologies that Lettie could not see him just yet. Howell made good use of the time, composing irresistible love poetry that was sure to win Lettie's affection. He took care, however, to make his odes just vague enough that they might be used on the next woman to be gifted with his undying love. Over time, Howell had learned not to squander all of his inspiration on one true love, as the next was sure to come along within the month.

Being productive and creative was all well and good, but as the day wore on toward late afternoon and Lettie had _still_ not arrived to so much as offer an excuse for her absence, Howell grew impatient. Having completed several perfect poems, he was bored with the exercise. What good was even the purplest of prose without its intended audience? After having so gallantly come all this way to see her, it should not have been necessary for him to have to seek her out, but Howell found himself doing just that.

As he was approaching the house, he heard shrieking, and prudently considered following his coward's instinct and beating a hasty retreat. Howell could hardly help but recognise the melodious voice raised in distress as that of his own dearest pursuit, however, and so he chose instead to investigate the situation. Peeping round the corner of the house so as not to immediately involve himself in any unpleasantness, Howell found himself privy to a most diverting sight. Before his eager eyes Lettie stood, deliciously exposed in nothing but her camisole and petticoats, soaked from head to foot with soapy water. The heretofore unfortunate dog was looking terribly pleased with itself now – Howell could hardly blame it, given the circumstances -- repeatedly attempting to jump up on Lettie and falling back into the tin washtub with a drenching splash. Howell had never seen Lettie look so lovely. It was not simply that he was seeing far more of her alabaster skin and alluring figure than he had done previously – though he was not about to complain regarding his good fortune in this respect -- it was that she was smiling and laughing in a completely unguarded, honest way she had never revealed in his presence.

Howell continued to watch from his secluded location, hoping for a better glimpse of the tempting silhouette he'd spied when the dratted hound had let her alone long enough for the afternoon sun to shine through her petticoats. Unfortunately, Mrs. Fairfax discovered him before he was to have the pleasure. "There you are, Mr. Oak!" she cried, approaching in that brisk, energetic way of hers. "We are terribly sorry to have kept you waiting for so long. Unfortunately, as you can see, Lettie won't be fit to sit for one of your interviews today. But we can't let you have come all this way for nothing! Why don't you come inside and I'll serve you a proper tea? I made a batch of my special honey scones this morning. You simply must try them."

Spending the rest of the day being chattered at by Mrs. Fairfax was not Howell's idea of a pleasant way to pass the afternoon. Fortunately, he was skilled at intervening into the endless prattle of verbose women from his time at Court. Howell employed his secret weapon, a dazzling smile that could stop any woman at ten paces, and graciously declined her invitation, simultaneously excusing himself with no more than a wistful glance over his shoulder at the bewitching sight of his beloved soaked to the skin. It was a pity Mrs. Fairfax had discovered him so soon.

Howell spent the rest of the day lounging about his secret garden at the edge of the Waste. Using his magic to help the flora along always relaxed him, and it had turned out to be such a vexing, disappointing day. As evening drew on and his brilliant mind calmed enough to forget the unpleasantness of the morning, Howell's thoughts turned to what had been a frequent dwelling place of late in his more quiet moments: the one that got away. Ever since he'd accosted and subsequently lost her on May Day, Howell had searched high and low for his lovely ginger-haired little mouse. He'd done everything short of asking the citizens of that quaint little town her whereabouts – a measure he felt bordered on desperate, and he was never that. He would have attempted a locator spell if he'd thought it had any hope of working; but those relied heavily on sympathetic magic, and he had nothing left of her but memory and longing.

Reclining in the soft grass and watching the sun set over the distant mountains, Howell thought of her and all the things he would say to her to prevent her running away like the first time, should he ever see her again. The poor, timid creature. It had been an entirely new experience for Howell to find a woman terrified of him. Wary, yes. Overwhelmed by his charm and good looks, often. But never staring at him with wide, beautiful turquoise eyes which looked certain he was about to devour her. It was endearing, really. How he wished he could see her again for another try.

Howell came out of his reverie in twilight, surrounded by bright red flowers so large their slender green stalks could hardly support the weight of their beauty. A wistful smile curved his lips as he reached out to touch one. These had not been here when he'd lain down; they were without a doubt the product of his fervent thoughts and longing for _her_. As romantic as the idea was of having a "one who got away," Howell was ultimately dissatisfied with it. He wanted to see her again. He wanted the chance to show her the beautiful flowers that had sprung from the fertile soil of his adoration of her. Howell sighed, feeling noble and tragic. He savoured the drama of the moment before gathering himself to do some more searching for Prince Justin. After all this time, there was little doubt where Ben Sullivan lay. Howell turned his gaze to the southeast where a chill desert wind was blowing up a sandstorm at the edge of the Waste. He shuddered.

It was late when Howell finally returned home. Another unsuccessful night of searching had ended in a fire-lit tavern in town, where he'd felt justified drowning a sorrow or two in the altogether adequate local stout. Howell had barely had time to sway toward the corner and lay his guitar aside before Michael was pulling him into the bathroom to unload a long list of grievances focused on Sophie's multiple crimes against humanity. Howell blinked benignly and not a little sleepily, pretending to listen as Calcifer vociferated his plaint from the next room, reinforcing Michael's argument that they get rid of her. Doing that, however, would inevitably involve confrontation and unpleasantness, and Howell was in no mood for either -- he never was. So he continued to "listen" to Michael, his eyes drifting slowly shut, until his apprentice realised his efforts were in vain.

"Howl, you're drunk!" he accused, observantly.

Howell smiled drowsily and patted Michael's shoulder, which turned out to be the bathroom sink. "Not at all, old man. You've seen me when I'm _truly_ drunk." His apprentice nodded, looking altogether sorry to be in possession of such knowledge. Seeing that Michael had given up trying to convince him to turn Sophie out, Howell made a gesture of good will to show his friends that he really had been listening, tilting out of the bathroom to interrogate the old-young woman about the single request he'd made of her that morning.

Sophie's answer was sharp, but terribly funny. The third pint would not allow Howell to completely contain his mirth this time, and he laughed as he answered her amusing accusation. He was still smiling as he ascended the stairs, slowly, so as not to trip. If he overheard any of the conversation that followed his exit, Howell did not remember it the next day, having fallen into bed and dreams of wet petticoats and timid virgin mice the moment he'd reached his bedroom.

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**Further Notes:** Howl's first lines of dialogue are, of course, straight out of _HMC_ and belong to DWJ and DWJ alone.

In the next chapter, Howl will visit Wales.


	3. Which is far too full of failure

**Characters this chapter: ** Howl, Lettie, Percival, Mari, Sophie  
**Genre:** Fantasy/Humour  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warning:** SPOILERS for _Howl's Moving Castle_

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 3:** _Which is far too full of failure_

Howell spent the ensuing fortnight continuing his backhanded search for the two royal missing persons – when he was not ardently wooing Lettie Hatter, that was. In spite of his best efforts to win her over and Mrs. Fairfax's not-so-gentle encouragements to Lettie to return his affections – now _there_ was a woman with good taste! – Lettie stubbornly refused to fall in love with him. Eventually Howell had been forced to resort to the tactic of appearing helpful as he escorted his unwilling quarry around the estate along her daily chores – he had even held a tray of bees for her, once! But no matter how often he came, how many times he offered her his expert advice on the spells she had been assigned to learn, no matter how charming he was or how florid the poetry he recited for her, Lettie continued to refuse him. Howell would have been offended if he hadn't come to view it as a challenge. All too often his game was absurdly easy for him to bring down; it only seemed fitting that he had run up against a worthy opponent at last.

An additional factor that had not made it into Howell's original calculations was the confounded pooch that had recently come into the possession of his beloved. It had cleaned up into a sleek, elegant creature very like the swift hunting dogs kept by some of Howell's acquaintances at court for running conies to ground. And it was friendly enough, if a bit timid of everyone but Lettie. The trouble was, her new pet monopolised Lettie's attention, which was quite an irritating and unexpected obstacle to Howell's intentions. Worse still, when she _did_ acknowledge his presence, it was to describe to Howell in tragic detail the abject state of the poor creature when they had first found it and to hypothesise upon the horrible cruelties it must have suffered across the countryside to come so low.

Knowing how women could be about their cherished animal companions, Howell knew better than to reveal that he could not have cared less about the damn beast or what state it had been in when, apart from that it was currently in _his_ way. He also knew better than to point out to Lettie that the dog was fine and healthy _now_ -- even self-satisfied -- for it was one of the most spoiled dogs Howell had ever seen. Lettie hand-fed it scraps from her own plate and not only allowed but encouraged the ungainly creature to scramble into her lap for an indulgent cuddle whenever she sat with her adoring and unrequited suitor.

Howell refused to be jealous of a dog, but after several consecutive days of this, he was approaching the point where he was considering being put off Lettie all together. The thrill of the chase had gone and been replaced with nothing but vexation and frustration accompanied by the smell of dog. With no more glimpses of his dearest in her undergarments forthcoming, Howell was becoming bored. And there was nothing that could put him off a woman more quickly.

Adding insult to the injury of Lettie's apathy toward him, none of Howell's attempts to locate Prince Justin yielded anything of use. He'd known for weeks now that the King's brother had stopped for assistance with faulty finding spells at both his home and Mrs. Fairfax's. Since then, he had uncovered each of the hedge-witches and petty hack wizards who had sold the prince those faulty spells and charms. But the only real information he'd gleaned was precisely what Prince Justin had told Michael himself when he had come to the castle: that no matter what he tried, the spells continued to lead him back and forth between the Folding Valley and Market Chipping.

Frustrated by his fruitless search for the prince, Howell thought he might go back a step and make one more attempt to find Ben Sullivan. To that end, he hit upon a scintillatingly brilliant idea which could not possibly have been thought up by anyone but himself.

Howell had bought his guitar not just because it was the perfect accessory to finish off his romantic suitor's ensemble but also because it had struck him as odd that a musical instrument from his world should be for sale at a flea market in Porthaven. Guitars in Ingary were far more antique than the vintage Tanglewood he had stumbled upon that morning being sold as a set with the yellowed old skull.

Howell had never been what one might call friends with the Wizard Suliman, but they had met and chatted at more than one court function, and respected one another in spite of their differences due to a shared background not only of the same native world, but also the same country, and Mid Glamorgan county, specifically. It had always struck Howell as a bit strange that they had both come from and to the same approximate inter-dimensional locations. But then, the research he'd done for his Master's thesis had confirmed for Howell that the south of Wales had always bred the strongest and most clever spellcasters in Europe.

On one particular court occasion at which both Howell and Ben had been in attendance, a certain attractive and notorious noble lady had convinced the royal wizard to produce the body of his musical instrument. Sullivan had gone on to startle those assembled with a distinctly Welsh gift for music and a predictably enchanting singing voice. Howell had beat a hasty retreat before he was called upon to perform similarly and the curse of his unmusicality was revealed, but he had never forgotten that occasion or the fact the Wizard Suliman had played on a style of guitar which could only have come from their home world. He couldn't be certain if this was that same guitar, but Howell thought it highly unlikely that a second guitar from there had made it here, and he'd purchased it just in case. Examining it, Howell felt it was from Wales in that same inexplicable way he sometimes did know things he could not have known by conventional means.

His brilliant scheme, taking all of this into consideration, was to use the guitar in the calibration of a new and more powerful locator spell.

That the musical instrument had originally come from South Wales was proved the first time Howell tried the spell. It led him directly to the natural inter-dimensional rift in the Porthaven marshes that he had once used regularly to visit home. Crossing the divide deposited Howell in the cave beneath Carreg Cennen Castle, a place of power with which he was also very familiar. So Sullivan had found it, too.

Howell followed the well-known path out to the vaulted passage which opened up on the sheer drop at the southeast side of the castle. Looking out over the Welsh countryside at the Black Mountain beyond, Howell felt homesick. He was tired of failure. The locator spell would be of no further help to him here; trying to work magic in his home world was like attempting to sprint through molasses, and this was delicate work. So Howell abandoned his unsuccessful not-searching for the day and used most of his personal reserve of power to boost himself to the car park on the other side of Castell Farm. (Apart from the fact he had no desire to walk, there had been a regrettable incident with one of the farmer's daughters several years ago which made it not the safest place for Howell to tread these days.)

After some kind Swedish tourists had given him a lift to the railway station, Howell took the train to Aberdare to console himself with the company of the one girl whose adoration of him was never in any doubt. It had seemed a shame to change one of his gold pieces from the King of Ingary into the tenner he needed to buy the ticket, so Howell had transformed it into a fifty pound note instead and used the extra to buy Mari a large stuffed toy and an extravagant bouquet of flowers for Megan -- though he well knew it would do nothing to cheer her persistently dour mood. In Aberdare, he caught the bus to Aberaman and walked to his sister's house, sorely missing his transport spells – or even his car -- as he laboured up the steep hillside with his burdens. In spite of the beautiful scenery he'd passed on this enforced travel by conventional means, Howell preferred magic to public transport any day.

He spent the evening with his niece, playing games and hosting a dolls' tea – far more pressing business than looking for a silly prince and royal wizard who had managed to misplace themselves. There really was no place like Wales, in spite of the constant oppressive drizzle and the river still black with coal mining byproducts 100 years later. Relaxing at home, managing to avoid Gareth for his entire visit, and being able to converse in Welsh for a change did do Howell some good. When Mari fell asleep curled in his lap watching telly, he tucked her in bed like the doting uncle he was and returned to the castle feeling somewhat better if no more successful.

On the second try, after he'd tweaked the spell for another go, Howell had even worse luck. What traces of Ben Sullivan remained in the guitar – if it had indeed been his and not that of a third Welsh sorcerer – seemed to be mocking him. Some days the spell would lead Howell to Upper Folding and Mrs. Fairfax's, others it would take him straight back to his own front door as it drifted over the heather. On one particularly unpleasant rainy afternoon, it had led him on a wild goose chase through the hills along the castle's circuit, at the end of which it insisted the Wizard Suliman was located in a field of newly-sewn corn. Howell had managed to just escape the farmer's dogs by the seat of his trousers -- or rather, _without_ the seat of his trousers, which he'd had to use magic to mend on the way home so as not to be maliciously crackled at by Calcifer. It had been most disheartening.

There were only two possible explanations Howell could come up with for this inherent malfunction in his new locator spell: one, that the guitar had not, in fact, belonged to Ben Sullivan but instead to a flock of hyperactive migratory birds, or two, the royal wizard had been most unfortunately separated from himself and the various pieces scattered across the countryside. All things considered, Howell preferred to think the first.

He was far too busy with all that was going wrong to pay much attention to Michael's and Calcifer's persistent complaints about Sophie. Perhaps she _was_ perfecting her role of insufferable old woman, but as Howell was rarely home, he felt it hardly his affair. Adding to his reluctance to turn her out was the fact his humble Porthaven house came to look more and more respectable every time he entered it. As few of those to whom he desired to appear disrespectable ever saw further into his home than the front doorway, Howell doubted it would ruin his bad reputation too much to have a kitchen sink free of moldy dishes and cockroaches or a work bench clean enough to eat from. In spite of the fact he had spent the better part of his life unconcerned by the filth of his surroundings, he found that he actually appreciated a bit of cleanliness.

Howell was not about to _inform_ Sophie that he did not disapprove of her efforts, however -- he feared what she might be capable of if encouraged; she was a relentless scouring demon as it was. But the day he returned home to a bathroom clean enough to cast his irresistible reflection back at him from all four walls, Howell very briefly considered kissing Sophie. Perhaps if she had not still been under that curse he had not yet had time to examine further. As it was, her present age and appearance were a bit much; even Howell had his standards. Still, he'd been elated. It had been _years_ since he had been able to clearly see himself in any of the bathroom mirrors, a fact which – though Howell would never admit it -- had hampered his daily toilette considerably.

His celebratory mood was squelched, however, when he realised Sophie had moved and "organised" all of his cosmetics. Heaven help her if she had actually dared to _clean_ his indispensable arsenal of tubes, jars, vials, and packets, as well. When no disasters occurred the next time he took a bath and prepared to go out, Howell assumed his luck was changing for the better. He was wrong.

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**Author's Note: **I did a lot of research on Wales for this chapter, because being vague about Howl's native village got tiresome very quickly. Aberaman worked best for my reasoning and this story, but other locations may appeal more to other writers. The truth is, DWJ made up the village Howl is from, so we have a lot of freedom as fanfiction writers in this respect.

All of the non-Ingary locations in this chapter really exist. If you're curious, feel free to e-mail me with questions or do a little research on your own.


	4. The Lapdog and the Crocodile

**Characters this chapter:** Howl, Lettie, Percival, Mrs. Fairfax  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warning:** SPOILERS for DWJ's _Howl's Moving Castle_

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**A Woman True and Fair **

**Chapter 4:** _The Lapdog and the Crocodile_

The next time Howell returned to soothe his failure-weary eyes with the sight of his beloved, he found that Lettie had acquired a new dog. Howell would not have thought it possible, but he missed the old gangly hound almost immediately. This new one was a yipping little lapdog -- the kind old ladies carried into department stores in their purses -- and even more spoiled than the first. In spite of its size -- or lack thereof -- this dog proved a formidable opponent to Howell. Where the first dog had merely got in his way through a brainless doting on its fair mistress and what had seemed to be a congenital lack of coordination, this mean-tempered little beast was willfully determined that Howell get nowhere near Lettie. In fact, it seemed to bear a personal grudge against him, which Howell found most perplexing.

He was unable to take Lettie's hand during greeting or parting for fear of the tiny terror sinking its teeth into his tender flesh -- something it had nearly succeeded in doing more than once when Howell's proximity to Lettie happened to offend it. For her own part, Lettie did nothing whatever to discourage this unacceptable and, Howell felt, undeserved behaviour from her pet. In fact, she did not seem to mind it in the least and would continue to stroke and coddle the miniscule monster as it snapped at him, smiling prettily and suggesting that Howell was perhaps late for an important appointment elsewhere.

Howell finally had enough when, one particularly trying day, after he had attempted to steal a kiss from the fair Lettie, her little hellion of a dog came after him with a vengeance, managing to tear one of his elegant sleeves before he had been able to escape to the orchard and climb an apple tree to safety. Refusing to be bested by a dog, he pled his case to Mrs. Fairfax. _She_ knew a gem of a man when she saw one, and seemed determined that Howell not get away, in spite of Lettie's disheartening lack of enthusiasm toward him. To this end, Mrs. Fairfax conspired with him to kindly corral the animal whenever he came courting thereafter. This removed _one_ of the troublesome obstacles in the way of Howell getting his desire, but there was still Lettie's stubborn will to contend with.

Howell had tried everything to win her heart, from flattery to subtlety, from sex appeal to dazzling her with his superior intellect. He had been ardent; he had been stand-offish; he had been virtuous; he had been bawdy; he had been funny; he had been serious; he had been doting; he had been negligent; he had been kind; he had even been wretched to her –- a surprising amount of women, Howell had found, were attracted to that sort of treatment. None of it had worked. When he had not been able to charm Lettie or encourage her affections with even the most sumptuous or thoughtful of gifts, Howell had attempted to entertain her; he had even performed some amateur acrobatics, all to no avail. He had played it cool, he had played it passionate, he had played for sympathy. When nothing in Howell's proven repertoire had worked, he improvised on the spot. But absolutely nothing he tried -- including everything that had worked for him before -- seemed to bring him one jot further into the dearth of this cold-hearted lady's affections.

It was getting to be insulting. Howell had put forth so much effort to impress her and not gotten so much as a kiss in return. He was fast approaching the line across which he would be making a fool of himself by continuing to pursue her. In theory, as a devotee to the ideal of love, Howell was willing to make that sacrifice. Faced with the actual prospect, however, he found himself questioning whether this particular love of his life was worth the risk.

True, Lettie was heart-wrenchingly beautiful; they would make a striking couple. She was intelligent, kind (to _others_), and appealingly delicate. Even her childish temper one might be able to grow fond of, over time. But, if Howell was honest with himself -- completely and brutally so -- he knew Lettie was just. Not. Quite. It. And as long as he was being honest, he might as well admit that he knew the reason why.

The moment Howell had first set eyes on Lettie, something about her face, the shape and colour of her eyes, had reminded him of his little grey mouse. It was because of this, more than anything, he had chosen on the spot to pursue her. If he had lost one woman, after all, the best solution would be to replace her with another as quickly as possible. One who reminded him of the first would be ideal -- or so he'd thought. But as the days passed and he came to see Lettie for who she was herself, Howell could not accept her as a replacement for his vanished timid beauty.

At this point, pursuing Lettie had become a matter of personal pride, not love. That would be thought on. Simply winning a game was not worth making a fool of himself, no matter how much Howell despised losing. But if he simply gave up, moved on...well, that could hardly be called losing, could it? If anything, it could be considered a draw. Still unsatisfying, but nothing to be ashamed of. Howell had settled for draws in his favourite game in the past, especially in cases where there had been another gentleman involved and abandoning his love had been necessary for the preservation of life and limb.

So he considered giving up on Lettie Hatter, even as he continued to visit her every day, hoping for something to change. Fortunately, decisions did not come quickly or easily to Howell, because while he was considering, victory finally came to him in a most unexpected way.

It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon and Howell and Lettie were seated on the veranda overlooking the garden. The heat of the day cast a dreamlike quality over their surroundings, aided by the hypnotic thrumming of the bees going about their work. Though Lettie's company was chill and unwilling as ever, Howell did not take it personally that day. He felt relaxed, at peace, yet strangely excited, as if something wonderful were about to happen. There was some intangible quality to the now and here of things, something magical, and Howell looked forward to what it might bring. All this together put him into a soppy romantic mood Howell had not felt for days spending time with Lettie. Perhaps, he considered, he would not give up on her after all.

He was admiring Lettie's beauty in one of those moments of blissful quiet during a natural lull in conversation. Time stood still, and Howell's reverie was accompanied only by the buzzing song of the bees and the distant anxious yipping of that abhorrent little beast -- the distance making it into a sweet music of its own. Howell was just considering how best to break the silence when he was struck down by a lightning bolt of epiphany.

Lettie. It was _Lettie's_ lovely face that Sophie's reminded him of. Howell had no earthly clue why the thought of Sophie should cross his mind on such an occasion, but he lauded his natural genius that it had. Yes. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was. Those clear blue eyes he adored were the same, though sparkling with youth in Lettie's case and rheumy with age in Sophie's. Sophie possessed that same velvet curve of Lettie's cheek, but in wrinkled leather. The shape of the eyebrows, even their noses were similar, though Sophie's was veiny and more aquiline where Lettie's sloped at the perfect angle to the planes of her face, ending in a slight upturn which suited her personality. And more incriminating still, there was a certain tilt of the chin which they shared; that bespoke a family relation.

Howell had spent hours admiring Lettie's perfect profile. He had sat across the workbench from Sophie, surreptitiously observing her for at least one meal a day for the last two weeks. How could he possibly not have seen it before now? Well, it was no matter. He had finally worked it out. Without even trying, Howell had all but won the side-game he had been playing of uncovering Sophie's true identity. Now if he could just find a way to turn this information to his advantage in his primary game, Howell could truly be called the King of Clever.

If Lettie had despised Howell just a little bit less, she might have noticed that the smile with which he suddenly favoured her was quite a bit more sly than charming. If she had not at that moment been fervently wishing that her canine devotee might break through the French doors and bite her unwanted guest somewhere incapacitating to his pursuit of her, Lettie might have been warned of danger by the sickly-sweet innocent tone with which Howell's next sentence was imbued. But her despairing suitor's luck had changed at last. Distracted by both these things, Lettie fell right into the trap of Howell's casual remark.

"By the way, Lettie, I've meant to tell you. I know someone called Sophie who looks a little like you."

Like all of her responses to Howell's compliments and cajoling of late, Lettie's answer was swift and curt. "That's my sister."

Howell's more sly than charming smile broadened to encompass the unadulterated rapture of the crocodile that has just eaten the cat that ate the canary. Grasping the possible implications of what he had just said, Lettie's eyes met Howell's for the first time that afternoon, the limpid blue pools both fearful and dismayed. Howell decided Lettie was terribly attractive when she was taken by surprise.

"Wait. What? How do you know Sophie?"

With the skill of long practice, Howell pretended not to have heard. As he rose elegantly from his garden chair, Howell's casually refined air was tinged with self-satisfaction. "Do forgive me, my love, but I'm afraid I must take my leave of you just now." He took Lettie's hand and swept a graceful bow of farewell. Even as he pressed his lips to her fingers, Howell was unable to hide his smug grin of triumph.

For the first time in a week, Lettie stood to take her leave of him. Howell was flattered, even hopeful, in spite of the fact she pulled her hand from his grasp as distastefully as ever. "But we haven't even finished tea!" she protested, seemingly beside herself at his imminent departure. It felt so good to be wanted at last, even if it had not come about for the reasons Howell had originally intended.

"It's true," Howell agreed. "And the hours I'm away from you will seem like years." He did his best to look wistful and tragic. "If it were not the King himself who had commissioned this spell I must complete..." Howell turned to Lettie and fixed her with soulful glass-green eyes. "Dearest, nothing less could part me from your side."

A charming rosy hue was painting itself across Lettie's cheeks. She must have been terribly upset to see him go for her colour to have risen so. And her face kept twitching as if she were attempting to dislodge a bee from her nose. Howell cherished the illusion that she was perhaps attempting not to weep in front of him. How magnificent that would be. His hopes were shattered, however, when Lettie finally spoke again, attempting to pin him down.

"Will you answer my questions when you return, Sylvester?" The tone of her plea was close to desperate, and the worst part was, he knew it was not for him. The realisation put Howell into a spiteful mood. He forced a smile and lied through his teeth.

"Of course, my turtledove." He did not intend to return for at least a few days. This new information made opening his present a priority, and Howell had had enough of Lettie's cold shoulder. Leaving her alone for several days -- especially now that there was something she wanted from him -- should teach her a lesson.

Before he left, however, Howell decided to test just how badly Lettie wanted her question answered by trying for one last good-bye kiss. The effort earned him nothing but a face full of dark curls when she turned her head at the last moment. Apparently, even desperation was not quite enough.

Still, Howell counted this day a victory. Never before had Lettie attempted to prevent his departure. Never before had she given any indication that his return would be eagerly anticipated. Even if it was only because he'd tempted her with information about her sister, Howell did not mind. He could use that to his advantage, just as he would find a way to use Sophie's connection to Lettie against _her_.

"I'll miss you dreadfully!" he called back with a wave before setting off on the packed earth road which would take him back to the castle. For once, Howell did not turn back for one last glimpse of his beloved; he did not even check to see if she was watching him go. He was far too eager to get home and make use of this startling new information.

Sophie, that bothersome old harridan who was no doubt at this very moment scrubbing his poor little Porthaven house until it screamed, was Lettie's sister. Her _sister_. In all likelihood, she was just as lovely as Lettie, if not perhaps even more so. Howell could hardly believe his good fortune. Once more the fever of impatience seized him, and it was all he could do to keep from running home to begin the delicate work of unwrapping his present. Now that he had an idea of what it was, Howell wanted it in his grasp more than ever.

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**Author's Note:** I know Howl seems awfully evil here, but don't worry. This is as bad as he gets, and his softer side comes out soon into the next chapter.

The first lines of dialogue in this chapter are paraphrased and taken right from HMC. They belong to DWJ, not to me.

The next chapter will wrap up the events which take place in chapter 5 of HMC.


	5. In which faults are enumerated

**Characters this chapter:** Howl, Sophie, Michael, Calcifer  
**Rating:** K+  
**Warning:** Spoilers for DWJ's _Howl's Moving Castle_

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**A Woman True and Fair **

**Chapter 5:** _In which faults are enumerated_

Howell was in such a good mood over his luck having changed at last, it was with a spring in his step that he entered the castle that afternoon. Almost immediately, he was struck by something unusual about the front room. As he carefully set the accursed guitar in the corner, Howell looked around, his brow furrowing as he tried to discern what was different. All of the furniture was in the same place, and it had been spotlessly clean for days, so that could not be it, either. Still, the room seemed somehow newer, brighter than before. Howell cocked his hip and brushed long bangs out of his eyes in order to cast an accusing green gaze at Sophie. But it was Michael who answered his question about the change, or rather confirmed who was to blame. As for the culprit herself, Sophie met his gaze warily at first, almost fearfully. There was something familiar about that. But when she heard Howell's exchange with Michael, she snorted defiantly and stumped over to her cubbyhole, where she pretended to be busy rearranging her collection of shells.

Howell let her go for the time being, feeling that another shower was in order; a fresh new Howell to celebrate his once more having gained the upper hand over the women in his life. Howell even chose a new perfume as he prepared to emerge from the chrysalis of the bathroom. The change would be symbolic of the change in his focus; new game required new tactics. It was a busy bee he was hunting now, so Howell felt it only appropriate that he choose the sweetest scent in his current collection: honeysuckle.

Apart from that which existed inside his own head, no applause or fanfare celebrated his beautiful reemergence just in time for dinner, but that could hardly spoil Howell's good mood. He was ready to finally get down to the business of Sophie. Who knew? When he finally succeeded in unwrapping the curse from her, Howell thought he might just decide to fall in love with Sophie next. He could feel he was nearly done being in love with Lettie, and it never hurt to be prepared.

Howell spent the rest of the day downstairs, carefully watching Sophie from behind a book of troubadour poems he was pretending to memorise. She seemed quite at home in his house now, chatting pleasantly to Calcifer as she cleaned up from dinner and shooing Michael away when he tried to help. One thing Howell couldn't avoid noticing was the sheer amount of work Sophie insisted upon doing and doing by herself. Now that he stopped to think about it, the house could not have gotten as clean as it currently was so quickly without a backbreaking amount of work. As he watched, Howell noted that in spite of her age and the rheumatism and arthritis which must no doubt accompany it, Sophie seemed incapable of resting for more than a few minutes before she was up again, hovering over Michael to make sure there was nothing he needed, putting more logs on Calcifer, even when he had plenty.

After several hours of this, Howell had yet to see Sophie do anything for herself. Even when there was no more work to be done, and no one was asking her to do a thing, Sophie continued to find chores and create work for herself. Howell could simply not fathom her. It was as if some mindless drive compelled her to be constantly productive and looking after everyone but herself. She had not yet tended to him as she was looking after Michael and Calcifer, but it was Howell's guess that the only thing stopping her was either an unexpected shy streak which existed in her – he had not been home much at all since she'd been living with them, after all – or a strong dislike of him. It was disturbing just how selfless she was. Howell's own lazy, selfish nature took offense at the mere proximity to such behaviour.

Why did she do it? He did not expect any of these things of her; Howell had not asked her to perform a single chore since she had moved in. It was Sophie who had appointed herself the cleaning lady and wrested the cooking duties from him. And she seemed perfectly content in this role, working like a slave while providing company for Michael and Calcifer.

Sophie had barged into their lives and changed everything, but at what cost to herself? She had not once asked for Howell's help with her curse. Even if she was not allowed to talk about it, as was standard with such spells, Howell knew of it and was thereby exempt from that restriction. She had never even _attempted_ to tell him about it, so why did she stay? For that matter, why had she come? Howell realised that there was still much information he needed to gather about Sophie before he could begin to help or take proper advantage of her.

Watching the comfortable scene before him that evening gave Howell a queer feeling. The easy camaraderie which seemed to have sprung up between his apprentice, Sophie, and his fire demon made him feel somehow left out; never a pleasant sensation even outside of his own home. At the same time, becoming a part of this domestic scene could not be anything he wanted. It went against everything he stood for as a confirmed bachelor and infamous scoundrel. But…they seemed so happy, so at home with one another. It made Howell feel as if there was an empty space the size of Cathedral Cavern inside his chest that would never be filled.

"Are you all right, Howl?" Michael asked, happening to look over at just the wrong moment. Calcifer's blue face gazed curiously out of the grate at him. Howell turned his head and coughed when he saw that Sophie was looking over, too.

"Just a little tired," he lied.

Whether she knew he was concealing the truth or not, Howell's innocent answer seemed to offend Sophie, whose face acquired a look of disdain that was worse than any he'd ever received from Lettie. It was a bit daunting to think Lettie might be the warm, generous sister of the two. "That's what you get for gadding across the countryside every day, victimising innocent girls."

Howell shut his book with a snap, resenting the accusation and irked by the holier-than-thou tone of voice Sophie favoured. In spite of it, he managed a smile. Howell was nothing if not spineless forgiving. "Dear Sophie, what you must think of me! I'll have you know I've never victimised anyone."

Sophie made a noise that was like a derisive snort with just a hint of one choking on disbelief before turning her attention back to the stockings she was darning. "Tell that to all the poor girls out there without hearts and souls, thanks to you."

Howell did not know if Sophie meant what she'd said in a literal or figurative sense. It should have been funny. It should have made him laugh. But something about her choice of words struck him in a way he did not like in the least. It made him squirm. Howell had loved each one of those women, in his own atrophied, handicapped way. Certainly, he had never meant them any harm. "I'm going upstairs," he announced, rising from his chair feeling martyred and vulnerable.

Sophie sighed and muttered to her needle, loudly enough for him to hear. "That's right. Slither out again, you unconscionable, shameful, wicked man."

Already hurt, Howell's anger began to rise to his defense. Seeing it, Michael put a hand on Sophie's shoulder to silence her, looking distressed. "Will you turn her out **now**?" Calcifer asked, hopefully.

Howell diverted the subject, along with his temper. Perhaps if he demonstrated to Sophie just how wrong she was about him. "What do you think of toasted cheese sandwiches for breakfast tomorrow, Michael?"

While Calcifer objected loudly, Michael looked utterly bemused by this question, having tried unsuccessfully to discern its relevance to recent events. Howell's empty chest went out to his apprentice, caught in the middle between himself and Sophie as he was. "I...suppose?"

"Splendid. Sophie, there's no need for you to cook tomorrow morning," Howell informed her before retreating up the stairs. As he went, he could hear her grumbling something about the devil assuming a pleasing shape as Michael warned her not to cross Howell again. And here he had been attempting to do something kind, for both Sophie and Calcifer. Howell had never felt so put-upon and underappreciated.

Holed up in his room with no other recourse, Howell did not fall asleep for hours. Sophie's words haunted him. He could not understand why she would be so unkind after he'd opened his home to her and practically given her carte blanche to destroy it. What more did she want from him? Howell began to worry that the Hatter family might possess a genetic disposition against him. The idea depressed him terribly. Wasn't he a generous, kind, gentle person, in spite of the deficiency of lacking a heart? What had he ever done to deserve this sort of treatment from two such lovely ladies?

Howell spent a good part of the night feeling sorry for himself. When he deemed it enough, his thoughts moved on to strategising what precisely to do about Sophie. From the state of the house and the daily progression of Michael's and Calcifer's complaints, it seemed the only areas which had so far escaped Sophie's remorseless cleaning were the yard and his bedroom. Howell knew better than to think she had left his private retreat alone out of some sense of shame or respect. If his calculations were correct, Sophie should be making an industrious beeline for either or both of these locations any day now. It seemed Howell had learned her identity and shifted his focus just in time.

The game he was playing with Sophie called for special measures. It was clear she'd gotten used to doing whatever she wanted in his absence. That was going to change. It was also abundantly clear from what she'd said to him tonight that Sophie felt she had pinned Howell down. He was going to take pleasure in showing her just how wrong she was. And when he had taken her down a peg and proven he was not half as hateful as she seemed to think he was, Howell would set to work on her curse and remembering just where he had met her before – a fact which continued to elude him.

The next morning, Howell cooked breakfast, as promised, and took his morning shower – applying the honeysuckle cologne once more – before going out as usual. As soon as the castle door shut behind him, he teleported back to his bedroom, where he laid the guitar aside and waited. Sophie had been poised and ready to clean even as he'd passed her on his way out; it would not be long.

Not two minutes went by before he heard her hobbling up the stairs. It was to be his bedroom, then; Howell had guessed right. He situated himself in her path, arranging his sleeves to drape just so as he leaned against the doorframe in what he hoped was a devil-may-care fashion. In spite of his carefully laid plans, Howell was nervous of the impending confrontation – he _hated_ confrontation.

As she ascended to the landing, Sophie was too preoccupied hauling her old bones and cleaning equipment up the stairs to notice him. Or perhaps her aged eyesight was really that bad. That wouldn't do. So Howell chose to _get_ her attention by verbally denying her entry, smiling kindly as he did so in an attempt to avert any unpleasant rebuttals which might be forthcoming.

The dumbstruck look of shock on Sophie's face made all of his trouble worthwhile. Howell had to summon all of his willpower and masterful acting ability in order not to laugh out loud. The picture of cool, he chided her for everything she had put Michael and Calcifer through, and for seeming surprised at his ability to use magic to deceive her. That was when Howell lost his superior position in the confrontation. Because judging from the way Sophie's face became flushed and her defensive response to what he'd said, he discerned that she had **not**, in fact, thought him capable of even such simple magic as this. Howell was gobsmacked. Just what sort of ideas **had** she got about him in the two weeks she had been living in his house? If he was to be pinned down by a cantankerous old busybody, Howell at least wanted to be pinned down accurately. And she was such a nosy thing; one would think all of her snooping would have given Sophie **some** accurate information about him by now.

Before he could think of an appropriate response for her gross misjudgment of him, Sophie shamelessly approached and peered around him into his bedroom, as if he were merely an inanimate object blocking her way. Howell obscured her view with one long sleeve and clucked at her to mind her own business. She did not like that one bit, becoming defensive again and daring to argue with him.

Howell had been in and out of the company of strong women his whole life, at first by birth and then later by choice. He had had more than his share of heated exchanges, and lost arguments more times than he was willing to admit. Yet somehow, Sophie got to him in a way none of the fiery females who had come before her had. Whenever she talked back to him, it was as though Howell was being poked with a large needle, repeatedly, in the same exact spot. This vexation, added to his hurt feelings at her underestimation of him, compelled Howell to put Sophie in her place. After the things she had said to him last night, he felt he practically owed it her.

"Yes, you _are_ nosy. You're a dreadfully nosy, horribly bossy, appallingly clean old woman. Control yourself. You're victimising us all." At least when he named _her_ faults, Howell kept his tone fairly pleasant. He did not think Sophie capable of expressing herself in anything other than a screech or a grumble.

When she tried to argue again, declaiming the state of his room, Howell used simple logic to put an end to it before politely shooing her away. For good measure, he asked her outright to stop quarreling with him. Surprisingly, it worked. But Sophie was clearly not happy with having her intentions thwarted. After she'd stumped away back downstairs, Howell slumped in the doorway, emotionally exhausted from even this brief exchange. And he knew it wasn't over. Sophie, he'd learned, did not give up so easily.

A clank of metal in the yard alerted Howell that his flank had come under attack while he had been attempting to recuperate. His equipment in the yard was far too important to let Sophie take out her frustrations on. In his hurry to stop her rearranging or cleaning his careful heaps of debris, Howell miscalculated the brief jump of space and made a most ungraceful entrance, tripping on the edge of some iron insulation as he landed. Seriously put out at having lost face, Howell turned on Sophie, ordering her to cease and desist immediately.

But being thwarted twice was apparently above Sophie's daily quota, because she was not having with that. When she informed him it was her mission in life to clean – whether he wanted her to or not – Howell very nearly lost his temper completely. Again with this stubborn insistence to serve, even where it was not necessary. What was wrong with her? Had she lost all of the young woman she had once been? Surely Sophie had not wasted her youth tending to the needs of others, cleaning up after them like a hired servant. Howell had had enough of Sophie treating herself like his oppressed serving woman. That was not why he had allowed her into his home, and it was one thing he refused to take blame for. Moreover, he would not be bullied on these grounds, as if he had ever asked her to do a thing for him, which he had not.

Just as he was on the verge of a temperamental explosion, Howell realised his anger was misplaced. Perhaps Sophie's curse had something to do with this inexplicable behaviour. If, as she said, she could not help the way she was acting, it would only compound the problem to shout at her about it. So instead, in his gentlest way -- for he knew Sophie was not about to change for _him_ -- Howell told her to find a new raison d'etre. Then he attempted to shoo her back inside the house for some genuflection on the subject, warning her not to invoke his fearsome Welsh temper. She would never know just how close she'd come.

That was when Sophie planted her feet in the ground and stubbornly refused to budge. The words that next came out of her mouth nearly prompted Howell to give up on her all together. "Of course you hate getting angry! You don't like anything unpleasant, do you? You're a slitherer-outer, that's what you are! You slither away from anything you don't like!"

Lettie's sister or not, intriguing challenge or not, even if she turned out to be more beautiful than three suns underneath the Witch's spell, Howell could not abide a second woman criticising him in the same insensitive and uninformed manner his sister did. One Megan in his life was more than enough. Even if it was merely payback for his having confronted her with her own faults upstairs, Sophie's summation of him set Howell's teeth on edge and hurt him deeply. She seemed capable of doing this to him so easily, Howell felt lucky he had no heart.

As tempting as her cruelty made it to turn her out on the spot and be quit of her, Howell's gentle nature won out, and he turned his snarl of pain into a smile, calling a truce now that they had each made their feelings about the other clear. He began to herd Sophie back indoors like the stubborn head of cattle she was, but caught and tore his sleeve in the process -- the exact one which had suffered at the teeth of Lettie's dog earlier in the week, naturally. Showing how far he had come from considering himself in the company of a lady, Howell swore soundly and satisfyingly.

Sophie surprised him. Instead of becoming offended, as any other woman in Ingary would have done, she looked guilty, immediately offering to mend the tear. _Why_ was she acting as if it was her fault to fix? Did she have absolutely _no_ sense of self? Howell was having no more of Sophie trying to do things for him and said as much. It seemed she needed a demonstration of just how little he wanted or needed her help. Howell gave it to her, using magic to make his sleeve whole once more and showing her how much more effective his method was.

Without another word, Sophie hobbled back inside, drawing the tatters of her dignity about herself as she went. Howell remained behind in the yard to calm down. How could one woman possibly cause him so much stress and vexation? He was sorry if he had hurt Sophie's feelings, but she had left him no choice. Howell collapsed onto a wrought iron bench and wondered how on earth he was going to survive the next few days at home.

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**Author's Note:** The dialogue actually enumerating one another's faults during the first big row between Howl and Sophie comes straight from DWJ. I would paint it on my wall and worship it if the men in white coats weren't already watching me carefully.

Cathedral Cavern is one of the more popular caves for tourists to visit in Brecon Beacons National Park (the same Welsh landmark in which Carreg Cennen Castle may be found).

This concludes the events covered in chapter 5 of _HMC_. In the next chapter, Calcifer will finally get a significant amount of dialogue.


	6. Out of the mouths of fire demons

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Sophie, Michael, Calcifer

**Rating: **T

**Warning: **Spoilers for Diana Wynne Jones' _Howl's Moving Castle_

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 6:**_ Out of the mouths of fire demons_

One good thing that came of Howell's terribly unpleasant and unwillingly revealing confrontation with Sophie was that she calmed considerably thereafter in respect to work. Whether it was his having raised his voice to her or that he had finally shown her that her industry was unnecessary as well as unwanted, Sophie spent the rest of the day huddled in her chair by the hearth. This radical change in her demeanor and actions had the unpleasant side-effect of making Howell feel terribly guilty about the things he'd said to her. This was the _true_ reason why he hated getting angry and quarreling with people: inevitably, he said ghastly things he regretted, often immediately, and could not take back.

Howell was seriously considering apologising to Sophie -- something he usually avoided doing no matter how bad the offense -- when Michael humbly offered Sophie a hamper of clothes in need of mending. It became clear that Michael was much better at managing Sophie than Howell was, as she perked up immediately. By nightfall, Sophie had recovered to the point where she was practically cheerful, a fact which irked Howell beyond measure for reasons he could not completely explain.

It was not that he begrudged Sophie her good mood; he was relieved to find she was even capable of being cheerful. Certainly, she had never seemed particularly happy or carefree before in his presence, much less because of anything Howell had said or done. Seeing it now for the first time, there was a certain quality in Sophie's content smile which made Howell resent having missed out on it before. No, his objection was not to her recovery but to the way it had come about. He, who knew better than anyone how to make a woman happy, had been the one to upset Sophie to the point where she had not spoken a word all morning, while Michael, a mere boy who -- to the best of Howell's knowledge – had no experience of women at all, had been the one to put things right with her. Something about that bothered Howell quite a lot, especially after his recent depressing lack of success with Sophie's sister.

Howell knew better than to think Lettie's lukewarm attitude toward him had done a 180 degree turn out of the blue. Good as it had felt to indulge in the illusion that she was finally enamoured of him, Howell was not an _utter_ fool. Her last words to him had made it clear that she was only anticipating his return to receive answers to her questions. Howell supposed, as Sophie's sister, Lettie had a right to know where she was. But his main concern of the moment was to remove the curse. It would put a serious cramp in his plans and intentions if Lettie were to come visit at this point -- or worse, take Sophie to Mrs. Fairfax's to live with her. Why, losing her would be a sore disappointment to Michael and Calcifer, now that they had grown used to and befriended Sophie. Howell had to protect _their_ interests, too, after all.

Once he broke Sophie's curse, Howell would lead her back into the arms of her loving family and finally receive the thanks he deserved from his dear Lettie. Why, if he was lucky -- and Sophie anywhere near as beautiful as her sister – perhaps Howell might receive the thanks he deserved from _her_, as well. A stupid grin painted itself across his face as Howell explored the fantasy of winning the affections of both beautiful sisters at once. It was an intriguing experiment he had never quite managed to pull off successfully -- women could be so dreadfully loyal to one another.

Howell was jarred from his reverie when a scratchy, not-quite singing assailed his ears from the far end of the room. The not-quite tune plucked at his memory, demanding to be recognised. Howell was shocked to find the noise was being made by Calcifer and Sophie singing together, the dry, cracked old voice accompanying the crackling voice of the fire, in a rendition of none other than "Sospan Fach." It was as though someone had just struck him a blow to the back of the head with Ben Sullivan's guitar. Not only had Sophie become friendly with Calcifer of late, but he had accepted her so far into his confidence that he had taught her some Welsh. Howell could not believe it. Just when had _that_ happened? Hadn't Calcifer been complaining to him of Sophie's cleaning rampages just yesterday? And it wasn't just any tune the fire demon had chosen to share with her, but "Sospan Fach." "Sospan Fach," his old rugby club's theme. Howell felt simultaneously violated and enthralled, not to mention somewhat defensively curious. When had Sophie and the demon in possession of his heart become so intimate?

That tore it for Howell. He was going to have a long talk with Calcifer. Soon. It wasn't right that they had gone this long without one of their heart to chest chats. Howell blamed that on Sophie's constant presence. But, on top of that, Calcifer had clearly been keeping things from him. They had not yet even discussed Sophie's curse, much less what to do about it. And there were things about Sophie which Howell wished to know; things completely unrelated to the matter of the curse; things that would help him get along with her, if he only knew her better; things it appeared Calcifer -- and perhaps even Michael, if the incident earlier in the day was any indication -- knew and he did not. Things Howell felt he should be privy to, considering Sophie was living in _his_ home to which she had been led by Fate in order to gain _his_ help. Why, Calcifer should have told him by now as a mere courtesy, if nothing else. It would not do to begin keeping secrets from one another. Howell had never kept any from Calcifer.

Though it was the fire demon with whom Howell was suddenly and irrationally furious, it was Sophie who bore the brunt of his displeasure as Howell felt compelled to interrupt their little chorus with a tart remark. Of course, once more he immediately felt guilty for his behaviour, especially when Sophie took his sour tone in stride. She really did _not_ expect any sort of kindness from him. To prove her wrong and make it up to her, Howell found himself immediately following Michael's example and promising Sophie his spare suit to mend. In hindsight, it did not make much sense as a gesture of good will, especially since he had determined to make Sophie work less. But if it would make her as happy as Michael's worn clothes seemed to have made her, Howell could spare his crimson satin suit.

Over the next few days, Howell worked himself to the bone, catching up on long-term spells he had put off in the pursuit of Lettie, giving Michael his lessons, and filling all of the orders that came to the door. He had always felt the wizarding business was in much greater demand when he was home than it was when he was away. How people in Porthaven and Kingsbury knew when he was home, considering he had been coming and going by the castle door, Howell could not say, but even Michael commented on the amount of work suddenly flooding in, so he knew it was not just his fondness for exaggeration at work.

As busy as they were, it was never busy enough for Howell. He had to keep active in order that his whirling thoughts might have free reign to properly digest all of the riddles and problems which had been lately set before him. Also, in moments of idleness, it was all Howell could do to dodge Michael's unintentionally hurtful questions as to his lack of success with Lettie. That was how the private library in his bedroom got alphabetized and put in chronological order by copyright date and sorted by author and subject matter.

Howell was having a devil of a time analysing and attempting to pick apart the construction of Sophie's curse, especially without appearing to be doing so. That was how the jars of powders and bottles of potions on the shelves got organised according to shade and hue, a system which appealed aesthetically to Howell but sent Michael into a fit of befuddled despair. Even then, his analysis was to no avail. And try as he might to get a few minutes alone with Calcifer in order to discuss the matter, Howell found himself thwarted at every turn. He could see how Sophie and the fire demon had become so close: she hardly left his side, a fact which Howell now found aggravating for various obvious and as yet undisclosed reasons.

These nuisances and failures worked together to make Howell all the more restless. He tried to distract his churning, frustrated thoughts by performing several jobs at once, bending feverishly over the work bench for a few minutes before running upstairs to find an object he had just thought of but did not need, and then pelting out to the yard to wrestle the tangled metal in the mud, making sure to tie his sleeves back so as to prevent another accidental tear. He set about each task with such vigour and so much nervous energy, Howell found he still had to invent projects to keep himself busy. That was how his boots got polished, the yard weeded, and the piles of bric-a-brac in his bedroom sorted according to a system even _he_ could not remember or make sense of five minutes later.

But no matter how much he accomplished, Howell could not stop working and pacing and fidgeting. His thoughts cycled on and on, like mad hamsters in loose exercise wheels, mowing one another down in their eagerness to catch the dangling carrot. In his case, the dangling carrot was Sophie, and Howell could not seem to approach her from any direction, magical or mundane. 90 of the things he said to her led to an argument of some kind, no matter how polite or flattering his tone was to start. And Howell seemed incapable of charming her either with compliment or courtesy performed. Inevitably she would mutter something about ulterior motives, Howell's anger would begin to seethe once more, and he would have to retreat before saying something else he would regret. Sometimes his powers of conversation would fail him all together. He felt as though he could no longer relate to his household. Several times, as Sophie and Michael were chatting amiably about some trivial thing or other, Howell would try to join in only to trample the nice, neat pattern of conversation and tangle it beyond salvaging. The two of them would stare at him as if he'd grown a third head, and Howell would rush off on some terribly important business he'd just thought of.

It was discouraging. Howell would have liked to wheedle the information he wanted out of Sophie herself – he was terribly good at that game when it came to other women. But trying to talk to Sophie was like driving a car into a brick wall. Perhaps it was her advanced age which was somehow interfering with his technique. Yes, that must be it. Her lack of youth and good looks had thrown him off his game. He would be able to charm her with a mere snap of his fingers once the curse had been removed. Howell was certain of it. In the meantime, he mostly gave up trying and simply found more things to do while he waited for his chance with Calcifer. That was how his large collection of jaunty and whimsical hats came out of storage and was cured of moth holes.

It was nearly a relief when the King's messenger came knocking at the Kingsbury door with another tall order for the royal army. Of course Howell had to decline the work; he couldn't have the King getting any ideas about appointing him royal wizard in Sullivan's absence. Perhaps he _was_ the next logical choice, given that he had been Mrs. Pentstemmon's last and brightest pupil, but Howell simply wasn't interested. Royal Wizard was far too respectable and stable a career for a dashing, spontaneous rogue like himself. And he _would_ find Ben. Somehow. Eventually.

When Howell noticed Sophie watching his courtly exchange with the King's messenger, he intentionally made his responses more and more baroque. Though etiquette did not demand anything near so formal under the circumstances, Howell wanted to show off his manners, to prove he was a gentleman of the highest degree and knew the ways of the King's court. When Sophie saw this, she would have to acknowledge the noble sort of man he was. Howell's increasingly genteel manner having set in motion some inner programming of protocol, the King's messenger met his challenge gesture for gesture, raising the stakes ever higher until they were both making a ridiculously hyperbolic display in the doorway. In the end, it did not even matter. Somewhere in the hour of polite bowing and scraping and even more polite refusals, Sophie nodded off over her sewing. When he peeped back at her from behind one long, dangling sleeve, Howell was terribly disappointed to find that he'd lost his audience. To make matters worse, he had been so distracted performing for Sophie that Howell somehow managed to agree to the King's request without fully realising it, having got lost in the Escher-like maze of politics and etiquette. Of course _that _part Sophie woke just in time to see. The one positive that came out of all of this was that now at least Howell had something more to do.

Since his social refinement and courtly sophistication had neither impressed Sophie nor convinced her he was not the worthless human being she thought he was, Howell attempted to get her attention and change her mind with something else he was expert in: magic. The orders that were coming in did not give him much opportunity to show off, but when Michael began to nag him for under-charging destitute Porthaven customers again, Howell took advantage of the opportunity to work some more interesting magic for Sophie while he distracted Michael with a magic lesson. He created a two-headed dragon out of thin air. He cast a glamour that made Calcifer look like Clapton. He gave the tea kettle legs and commanded it to ambulate around the room. He even turned Sophie's sewing thread to pure gold and enchanted her needle to sew several precise stitches all by itself – a trick which she pretended to be annoyed with when all the while her wide blue eyes stared in wonder. Sophie even laughed aloud, a joyous, bubbly sound which did not fit her cronish voice at all, when he stopped the spell, returning the needle neatly to her hand. That was by far Howell's proudest moment of the week.

Encouraged, he threw more spells together without even looking, jotting down notes for his apprentice while executing each one quickly and perfectly. It was hard work to make it appear effortless as Howell explained them in turn to Michael using his most casual tone of voice. The frustrated, discouraged, and confused looks on Michael's face as Howell showed off were evidence enough that this was hardly their standard magic lesson. But Sophie did not have to know that. Howell was all too pleased to monopolise her attention in this way all afternoon. When he felt he had done enough for one day to prove to Sophie that he was indeed the best and brightest wizard in Ingary, Howell took Michael out to the yard to get some actual work done.

The spell the King had called for was not difficult in and of itself. The principle was basic, the only hard part – which no one but Howell could have remedied so cleverly – was how to apply it so that it would realistically accommodate the entire army. The answer was almost too simple, really. He tried to explain a bit of it to Michael as he assisted in the wizard's work, but Howell was too impatient to give the complete answers Michael needed to fully grasp the concept, and his mind kept wandering.

By this point in the week he'd spent at home, Howell was perilously close to having a tantrum over his inability to get Calcifer alone. He needed to, not just because Calcifer possessed information about Sophie which Howell lacked, but also because he needed help removing that blasted curse. Howell had tried doing it on his own already, twice, with no result. The second time, he had thought he'd seen a shimmer of glamour as it began to fall away, but it must have been just a trick of the light or wishful thinking, because a moment later, there Sophie sat, old and wrinkled as ever. If he and Calcifer worked together, they should be able to make the stubborn thing budge.

Then there was the matter of Lettie. After having visited to court her every day for three weeks, Howell honestly did miss seeing her. His mind kept returning to her objection at his departure that last time and painting in details of his own which made the scene more hopeful than it actually had been. Still, he could not be absolutely certain he had added those bits himself until he went back. Perhaps there was still a chance she would warm to him – especially if he strung her along for a bit by withholding the information she seemed to want. Perhaps that would not even be necessary; perhaps this long estrangement had convinced her to miss him. In spite of the fact it worked against the tactic, Howell could not wait to go check and see if she had become fond of him yet.

Having to wait in respect to both of these things served to make Howell even more nervous and restless. He had not slept much in the last several days, staying up late to attempt to invent new ways of communicating with Sophie in a peaceable manner while conveying to her just how wonderful he was. He theorised about the best way to pump Lettie for information about Sophie while offering up the least amount of information in return. He pondered how to turn Lettie's interest in news about Sophie to his advantage. At the same time, he was still wracking his brains for explanations of what had become of Sullivan and Prince Justin, and what else he could do to search for them.

After a few days of this, Howell was teetering on the brink of madness. His impatient nature could simply not take anymore. He had been holding off on the idea of speaking to Calcifer when Sophie was asleep because the hearth was close enough to her bed that she might overhear or her sleep might be disturbed by their conversation. But after having waiting this long already, Howell gave up hope that Sophie might stray out of hearing range of Calcifer for longer than a minute, and decided there was no help for it. That night, he waited, impatient and fidgety, to hear the sawing snore from under the stairs which indicated Sophie had finally fallen asleep. Then he tip-toed down with the tangled wire apparatus he had hurriedly thrown together to create an artificial bubble of silence around Sophie while he and Calcifer talked. He had to go up and down the stairs several times, first because he'd forgotten the special chalk to delineate the confines of the bubble, then to check the requisite book for the correct incantation, as it was a spell he'd never had occasion to use before and had thus not memorised exactly. He went up one last time to get the special powder he'd mixed to assure that Sophie would not wake up and suddenly think herself deaf – or worse, wander out in the midst of their private talk -- and he was finished. Howell tested his work by setting off a piece of flash paper and creating small vacuum which accompanied the burst of flame with a firecracker-like bang. Sophie did not stir.

"Howl, what's going on?" Michael was leaning over the railing above, blinking sleepily down at the clearing smoke.

"Nothing, Michael. Go back to bed." The young man looked perplexed but shrugged and did as Howell had told him. One quality he had always appreciated in his apprentice was a natural deficit of curiosity. Michael did not ask many questions. Satisfied that both potential eavesdroppers were taken care of, Howell arranged himself as comfortably as possible on the floor by the hearth.

"Wouldn't it just have been easier to give her head a good sharp rap with that cane of hers?" Calcifer's purple grin was lop-sided, a sure sign he was teasing Howell for being unnecessarily thorough.

"Har har, Calcifer. It is to larf."

"Well, _some_one's in a lovely mood this evening."

Howell long-sufferingly raised his eyes heavenward – or more accurately to the ceiling beams, which he noted with relief were still crawling with spiders. "You would be, too, if you'd suffered as I have these past few days."

"Don't talk to me about suffering," the fire demon popped and snapped. "Why don't you try living your life trapped in this fireplace if you think you've got it so bad?"

"All right, all right." Howell conceded the point. "Speaking of your cruel confinement, I couldn't help noticing you've finally found a companion to ease your endless days of boredom."

Calcifer blinked glowing eyes at him in confusion. "Who, Sophie?"

"Yes, Sophie," Howl said, petulant. "Who else do you flame about with day and night, singing songs?"

The fire demon stared at Howell in silence for several moments, his expression both surprised and puzzled, then incredulous. A sizzling breath of a giggle flickered over the grate, and then Calcifer threw back his curly-flamed head and roared with laughter. He whooped and crackled and howled, guffawing great jets of pink flame up the chimney, until he was weeping glowing embers of mirth. It took several minutes and the threat of a bucket of water before he would calm down enough to make any sense.

"Just **what** is so funny?" Howell demanded to know, feeling sullen and humiliated even before Calcifer made his answer.

"You!" Calcifer spat, chuckling. "You silly cabbage! What's gotten into you, becoming jealous of a hearthbound elemental spirit? What do you think? I'm going to turn her into a salamander and we'll live happily ever after?"

Howell was dumbstruck with shock and indignation, so much so that he began to stutter. "Wot? M-me, jealous? Of **you**…with _Sophie_?" He attempted to scoff, but he was too flabbergasted to carry it off properly. "What nonsense! As if I could ever fancy a dreadful old bat like her!"

"Oh, indeed?" The fire demon leered at him, showing a mouth full of dancing, pointed teeth. "Is that why you've been strutting around the castle all week like a frustrated peacock, showing off and pretending to be seven things you're not?"

"Seven! W—"

"Making attempts at conversation that are as pathetic and awkward as a first year schoolboy attempting to chat her up?" A thick green eyebrow of flame rose, challenging Howell to present a credible alternate explanation for this evidence.

Howell resolved to stop spluttering and stuttering then and there, getting to his feet and drawing himself up to his full height. "Why, that's preposterous! I was never awkward with women, even at that tender age, and I've no clue where you're getting these ideas from, you senile old ball of gas."

"Oh, don't you just?" the demon scoffed. "Don't think you can lie to me about your feelings, Howell Jenkins. I am closer to your heart than even you are."

Howell was not being dishonest with Calcifer about his feelings – not completely. What his friend had just accused him of had simply never occurred to him before now. The suggestion confused him. And Howell was utterly puzzled by his inability to offer a strong argument to the contrary. Considering it for the first time, Howell was horrified that what Calcifer had said might be true. He, fall in love with someone so contrary, so rude and without refinement, so utterly unpleasant, so argumentative, so…well, he did not even know what she looked like yet. Howell had never fallen in love with a woman without having seen first just how beautiful she was. It went against his highest principles.

These distressing thoughts were far too much for him to bear. Frowning in consternation, Howell smoothed his jacket and announced that he was going to bed. "What, so soon?" Calcifer crackled mockingly. "I thought you wanted to have a talk."

"I couldn't possibly have a heart to heart talk with a so-called friend who is so insensitive to and misunderstanding of my feelings," Howell told him, haughtily. He turned his back on Calcifer's sizzling snigger and marched over to Sophie's cubbyhole under the stairs where he set about dismantling the spell of silence quickly and efficiently, stowing its various elements at random around the work area.

Calcifer was still crackling to himself and muttering under his breath as Howell prepared to go upstairs. He gave the fire demon a glare of good night and began to ascend to his room, which was when Calcifer's mumbling fell into a familiar rhythm, and Howell finally realised what it was the demon had been saying. "Howell and Sophie, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-"

"Oh, for the love of-!" Howell whirled on the stairs to glare black death at the mischievous spirit. "Are you four million years old or merely four?" This only seemed to provoke Calcifer further, as he raised his voice a decibel or two and continued on.

"First comes denial, then comes marriage, then comes—"

"Oh, geroff, Calcifer!" Howell found that shouting quietly was no easy task. The sleeping powder was still working on Sophie, but he saw no reason to fill her dreams with a row over something so ridiculous as this.

"Cinder-Howell, dressed in yellow, came downstairs to kiss…"

It was clear the fire demon was having too much fun harassing him to stop any time soon. Howell deeply regretted having ever taught Calcifer any of his childhood rhymes. He threw up his hands and exorcised his frustrations with a long string of curses in Welsh informing his so-called friend precisely what he thought of his little joke, and addressing the questionable circumstances both of the fire demon's birth and lineage. Calcifer snapped and crackled harder than ever, flaming up the chimney in high-pitched giggles as Howell stormed off to his room, where there was nothing left for him to do but slam the door hard enough to shake the beams.

Howell spent that entire night without sleep, pacing back and forth through the intraversible clutter of his bedroom floor, trying to think of all the reasons why Calcifer was wrong. He did not love Sophie. He had not yet even made up his mind to do so, therefore, it was impossible, against Howell's standard operating procedure. Not to mention that she was the most difficult, stubborn, judgmental, nosy woman he had ever had the misfortune to meet. Even if she _was_ truly a breathtaking beauty underneath the curse, her personality and disposition were more than enough to eclipse any amount of good looks.

Howell struggled and reasoned and wracked his brain for proof of why Calcifer was wrong. In the end, what he kept falling back on was the fact he was still in love with Lettie. But was he really? It suddenly became paramount that Howell prove this fact to himself. He would have to go see her, right now – no, tomorrow, tomorrow. But that meant yet more _waiting_. The agony. Howell couldn't abide the thoughts Calcifer had set loose in his head, fluttering about like an army of deranged cannibalistic bats. But he had no choice but to wait until the morning.

Sullen and resigned, Howell curled himself into a miserable heap by his bedroom window and glared out at Megan's back yard. The hedge needed trimming. And there was **no** way Howell had fallen in love without realising or planning it in advance, especially when his feelings were obviously not based on the woman's good looks. No way in heaven or hell.

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**Author's Note: **This chapter is dedicated to a dear friend who passed beyond this world yesterday.


	7. Research and Rejection

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Michael, Sophie, Lettie, Percival

**Rating:** T

**Warning:** Spoilers for DWJ's _Howl's Moving Castle_. Please don't read this if you have not yet read the original novel.

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**Chapter 7:** _Research and Rejection_

When morning finally arrived, Howell could not get out of the castle fast enough. He shortened his bath routine by half, but when he emerged, Michael was still not ready to go see the King. Howell very nearly dressed the young man himself. When Michael finally _was_ ready, there was still the matter of wrapping the spell apparatus for proper presentation. Howell was getting so twitchy by then, he nearly bunched it up in the gold foil like a baked potato. Fortunately, Michael was there with tape and patience, and the finished product looked almost respectable, which was more than good enough for Howell. He shoved it unceremoniously into Michael's arms and fairly kicked him out into the streets of Kingsbury. To make up for appearing as hasty as he felt, Howell wasted another precious few moments giving Michael the instructions again and telling him about his homework assignment. That done, he shut the door abruptly in his apprentice's face.

Restlessly pacing the room, Howell attempted to calculate just how few seconds he could wait and still make his departure seem casual. What he really wanted to do was fling himself out the door at once. Just being in the same room with Sophie after last night made him feel awkward and jittery. Howell couldn't even look at her; he felt as though he might break out in a nervous sweat at any moment. And that just wouldn't do. He decided he could not tarry another second, casual departure be damned. Offering a flimsy excuse, he informed Calcifer and the skull – knowing that Sophie was looking at him was bad enough without meeting her gaze – that he was going out. Howell gave instructions in her general direction before depositing his scarlet suit in Sophie's lap with a thought. Then he was gone.

He was in such a hurry, Howell did not even bother setting foot on the hillside before casting his transport spell, stepping straight from his doorway onto the common in front of Mrs. Fairfax's. He spied Lettie cutting flowers in the garden and bridged the distance between them with long, hurried strides. Howell did not know if he was running to her because he was eager to see Lettie again or if he was merely that desperate to find out if he still loved her. Well, he was never desperate, so by logical deduction, it must be the first.

When he reached her – and it seemed to take ages -- Howell was slightly out of breath. "Lettie." He couldn't seem to summon a formal or florid greeting just now. She looked up at him in surprise, and it struck Howell that Lettie looked more lovely than ever. That was promising. He took her in as she was, kneeling in the sunlit rose garden, her full skirts pooling around her in the grass, wide-brimmed sun hat carefully askew, and her dark curls draped just so over white shoulders. Howell felt as though he were standing before the most exquisite painting. Until, that was, Lettie put her gardening sheers aside and gathered herself to greet him.

"Sylvester. You came back." She hardly seemed overjoyed; in fact, her tone contained something much more like disappointment. But Howell did not let that stop him.

"Of course, my love," he replied with the most elegant courtesy. "The only wonder is how I could have stayed away for so long." He offered her a hand and helped her to her feet, noticing that there was a medium-sized, fluffy sheepdog lying at her knee only when it growled at him. "I see you've got another new dog," Howell commented with nervous dismay. This one looked as though it could take a sizeable chunk out of him.

"Er. Let's go for a walk," Lettie suggested with a bright smile. "The weather is so lovely today."

"Indeed it is," Howell agreed, placing them right back in their usual realm of utterly meaningless conversation. Normally, he would have followed this with a comment on Lettie's own loveliness, but today Howell had too much on his mind to be bothered with flattering her at every turn. Lettie wasn't paying attention to him anymore in any case. She had bent down to take the dog's shaggy head in her hands and look regretfully into its long, narrow face.

"Please understand. It's important," she was telling it, as if it had the vaguest concept of human speech. "I promise to spend time, just the two of us, later. In the meanwhile, go look after Aunt Annabel like a good boy." The dog whined and groaned in protest, as if it had actually understood, causing Howell's eyebrow to twitch. Lettie gave the dog a sympathetic ear rub before sending it on its way with a firm pat on the shoulder. "Go on, darling. You can do this for me." Howell noted warily that the reluctant hound budged not one inch as Lettie turned back to face him. But then she was taking his arm, and they were off on their stroll, leaving the dog behind, staring meaningly at their backs.

Howell was surprised at Lettie's sudden change of heart in regard to making physical contact with him of her own accord. He wondered if they had finally become comfortable enough with one another for this. It did feel as though some sort of amicability had suddenly sprung up between them. For his part, Howell found himself cherishing not a single untoward thought at the feel of Lettie's delicate little hand resting on his elbow. It was like taking a stroll with…one's sister.

This thought disturbed him so thoroughly that Howell forced himself to flirt and flatter her as they went. It was not a terrific success for either of them, for though Lettie's hand remained on his arm, she did not respond to his acting any more than she'd responded to the genuine article last week. While Howell spent their walk overcompensating, Lettie was distant and seemed preoccupied.

They had just reached a pair of fruit-bearing lemon trees when she turned to him suddenly and revealed what had been on her mind. "Sylvester, there's something been bothering me ever since you left."

Howell eyed Lettie somewhat anxiously, certain she was about to confess her love. But if he felt far less enthusiastic about this possibility than he would have the week before, he did not show it. "What is it, my sweet summer rose?"

Lettie's face twitched briefly, but she quickly got it under control and took a deep breath before continuing. "I feel I must be completely honest with you. But I need you to be completely honest with me, as well."

One of Howell's carefully-plucked eyebrows rose. This, he had not been expecting. In spite of a growing uneasiness, he did his best to smile in a confidence-inspiring manner. "As honest as I can be, turtledove."

Lettie's brow furrowed and for a moment she looked ready to pout. Howell began to sweat. If only he'd been more prepared. His discomfort lasted only a few heartbeats, however, before Lettie pressed on in spite of his weak response. "You see, my elder sister has been missing for nearly three weeks now. My stepmother came home one afternoon to find the shop closed and Sophie gone without a trace. She's never been seen or heard from since. We're worried sick. So, you see, when you mentioned knowing Sophie the last time, I thought perhaps you might have seen her more recently." Lettie reached out and clutched his arms, pleading. "Oh, do tell me if you have. I need so desperately to know that she's all right!"

Howell blinked guiltily down into her lovely, earnest face. This was not something which he had previously considered: that somewhere out there were people who loved and worried about Sophie, missing her. Howell had a difficult time imagining missing the aggravating old biddy. But he had to concede that family ties were important, and tended to override that sort of thing. He would probably worry quite a bit, too, if Megan had ever gone missing -- after a celebratory week or two of freedom, that was.

Now that Howell stopped to think about it, for a young woman to disappear as suddenly as Sophie must have done, her family would be dreadfully worried about her. Leave it to Sophie to go stumping off into the wilderness without so much as a good-bye note. Perhaps she'd thought she could find help and be back and free of the curse before anyone noticed. This made Howell feel doubly uncomfortable, as he had not yet been able to remedy this situation. He had also not considered that Sophie never having left Calcifer's side these three weeks also meant that she had not been to see her family in all that time. He felt aggravated with her for this. If she had bothered even to write them a letter, he would not be stuck in this moral quandary now.

While trying to decide what magnitude of lie his conscience would allow him to get away with, Howell patted Lettie awkwardly on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort. She looked so distressed, it was difficult for him to lie at all. "Your sister is safe," he said, finally. "This…my powers of clairvoyance tell me. More than that I cannot currently say." And that much was close enough to the truth.

"But," Lettie protested, pulling away and attempting to meet Howell's guiltily-roving eye, "you said you _know _her."

"What distressing news that she's disappeared!" Howell hurriedly changed the subject. "You've really not heard anything from her in all this time?" Perhaps if he ordered Sophie to write a letter to her mother and sisters when he returned home, it would relieve some of this dreadful guilt he was feeling.

Lettie looked as if she were about to cry. "No. Not a one." Howell gallantly offered her his handkerchief and waited sympathetically while she blew her nose on it. Too much more of this, and Howell feared he might confess the truth to Lettie. There had to be some way to turn this situation to his advantage.

Just as Lettie turned glistening blue eyes back to him, he had it. Howell got down on bended knee before her. "Darling Lettie, it pains me to see you so. If I may, I'd like to offer my services in helping you find your sister."

"Oh, how-!" she cried, the last word strangely clipped at the end.

"I'm quite good at finding spells," Howell answered.

"Oh, Sylvester! That would be wonderful! The spells we've tried haven't worked at all. I've been afraid she might have gone out of the country or come under some awful dark enchantment!"

Howell squeezed her delicate hand reassuringly. "Well, that may be true." And it was. "But, I assure you, I shall find your sister, regardless."

There followed a breathless, nerve-wracking pause in which Lettie seemed to be measuring him with teary but canny eyes. It was broken by one of her rare genuine smiles. Lettie really was so much prettier when she was being honest. Something about that disappointed Howell, in a way. But he met her smile with a dazzling display of his own pearly whites. "Now." Howell stood and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm once more. "Tell me everything you know about – Sophie, was it?" As they set off down the path, Howell congratulated himself on his flawless acting ability.

Lettie's brow furrowed prettily. "Yes, Sophie. But…" She tried to meet his eye, and Howell cleverly avoided her gaze by bending to inhale the heady scent of a hibiscus they were passing. "I don't understand. For a finding charm, doesn't one just need an object related to the focus of the spell?"

Howell turned back to face her of a sudden, his eyes bright and overly eager. "You have something of hers here?"

Lettie gave him a suspicious look and answered haltingly. "Well…Sophie's sewn most of the clothes in my wardrobe…"

"Has she really?" Howell asked, feeling more intrigued than ever. That might explain why needle and thread seemed such a comfort to Sophie.

"Yes. She's always possessed talent with a needle and an eye for fashion. Sophie has such a gift for suiting the clothing to the person, you'd think it was magic. She could have made so much money as a seamstress or even a designer in Kingsbury, but no! Fanny had to go and put her in the shed, sewing hats!"

"Hats?" Howell asked, perplexed.

"I told you before my family owns a hat shop in Market Chipping."

"Yes, of course!" Howell pretended to remember. It was telling he'd already begun to forget the smaller details of Lettie's background.

"That's why, at first, Martha and I hoped she'd simply run away. Cloistered like a nun, decorating hats night and day is no place for someone as talented as Sophie. Not that she'd believe it if you told her. It always took the two of us working together to convince Sophie she was worth anything. She has such a terrible complex from being the eldest, you see."

Howell blinked, trying to make the connection. "Because of fairy tale tradition?" he asked, incredulous.

Lettie smiled at him, and a sort of conspiratorial understanding passed between them. "Yes. And the rule applies ONLY in tales. Real life is what you make of it. But Sophie never seemed to understand that bit."

"She _can_ be rather obtuse," Howell mused aloud.

"She's just never given herself enough thought," Lettie explained. "But that's Sophie. Always putting others first."

"You mean she's always been like that?" Howell asked, surprised. It was still difficult for him to believe that someone so selfless existed in the world. Even in this one.

"Well, not at first," Lettie told him. "But after Mother died – I was very young, and what with Father remarrying so unwisely… Perhaps I should be more generous to Fanny. She had her hands full taking care of the shop, and then Father when he became ill… It was Sophie who raised us. In a way, she's more of a mother to us than Fanny is."

_Like a mother?_ Howell thought. _She can't be twenty! _He was incensed on Sophie's behalf. Suddenly, many things about his cleaning lady where beginning to make sense.

"Please, Sylvester." Lettie turned to him with tears in her eyes. "You have to find her. Sophie's far too kind to be out in the world alone. Someone might take advantage of her and she'd never even know it."

Howell felt suddenly glad Sophie had arrived at his door instead of some other scoundrel's – or worse, one of those less reputable wizards he had interviewed in his search for Prince Justin. He did not like to imagine how hard Sophie might have been made to work for someone who actually demanded it of her.

Lettie's eyes suddenly grew menacing. "But heaven help anyone who would dare to harm my sister!" Howell backed away a half-step, not a little intimidated by the fearsome look on her pretty face. "Annabel says I've a natural gift for curses!" Judging from the way the hairs on the back of his neck were sticking straight up, Howell did not doubt it.

It was impossible for him to respond before releasing a bit of the tension with some nervous laughter. "Now, now. I'm sure that won't be necessary."

"It had better not be," Lettie told him darkly. Howell wished she would not direct such threats at him when she seemed to mean them more generally.

Once that unpleasant shift of mood had blown over, Howell spent the rest of the morning asking Lettie about Sophie. When she asked why he was inquiring as to Sophie's favourite scent, colour, pastry, and flower, Howell simply told her that the more details he had, the better chance his finding spell had of working. In spite of this, Lettie's answers became increasingly evasive. When he saw she was becoming too suspicious of his motives to continue – perhaps he should not have asked Sophie's dress size – Howell took his leave of her. He was in such a good mood about having finally received some useful information about Sophie at last, he moved to embrace Lettie without thinking.

Lettie stepped out of the encroaching semi-circle of Howell's arms wearing a stormy frown. "Sylvester. I—there's something I should tell you."

"Oh?" This did not bode well.

She clasped her hands together and twiddled her thumbs, nervously. "Well. I hope it will not affect your promise to help find my sister…" Lettie met his eyes, uncertain.

"My dear lady." Howell summoned up a noble expression from the depths of his untrustworthiness. "I gave you my word. Surely you must realise that means something."

Lettie did not look at all convinced. But after taking a moment to reach a decision within herself, she continued. "Well, you see. As to your intentions toward me, I'm afraid—" She had been uncomfortably averting her gaze, but Lettie looked up at him before continuing. Her eyes were both wary and slightly pitying. "I'm afraid they are in vain. The fact is, I've fallen in love with someone else. Someone who _truly_ needs me."

Howell felt as though those lovely blue eyes had turned him to stone. Someone else? There had never been 'someone else'. Not this late in the game. The last bit of what she'd said niggled at him. Women only fell in love with men who "needed" them out of pity. Howell had tried to be piteous. Why hadn't it worked for him?

"So you see," Lettie was continuing. "It's quite pointless for you to continue to pursue me. I've made up my mind." Noticing that Howell had gone ominously silent, she added hastily, "But I do hope that we may still be friends."

That was the knell of death for Howell. He had not been given the "let's just be friends" speech since he had been in secondary school, acne-ridden and forced to wear a hand-me-down pair of horn-rimmed spectacles which had been the bane of his existence for two full years. When he still did not respond, reliving a time in his life Howell would rather have burned from his memory with a hot poker, Lettie began to look worried. "Sylvester?"

Howell refused to show her how upset she had made him. "Yes, I apologise!" he blared in a radio announcer's voice accompanied by a toothpaste advert smile. "I was just thinking of how best to set your spell in motion. Speaking of which, I really must fly! There's no time to lose if we want to find your sister!"

Lettie smiled up at him with no small amount of relief, proving that she had not expected him to keep his word. Little did she know what an empty promise it had been to begin with. "Oh, thank you!" she cried, clasping his hand in gratitude. "Please do tell me of your progress."

"Of course." Howell swept a bow stiff with the insult he was feeling. "As soon as I learn _anything_, I shall let you know."

He left soon after, setting off down the path with angry, ground-eating strides. Fall in love with someone else? How dare she? After all the time and effort Howell had wasted on her. And who was this mystery man? Howell had never seen a rival suitor on any of his visits, and he had been constantly at her side before this last week. Surely another man had not swept in at the last minute and managed to do what Howell had not been able to in three weeks.

Well, it was just lucky he was not in love with Lettie anymore, or Howell might have been _truly_ hurt. At this thought, he stopped abruptly on the path, the inertia from his recent momentum nearly causing him to fall face forward into a briar.

Thinking back over the morning they had spent together, Howell realised it was true. Lettie was no longer the great love of his life. But that meant… Much as he wanted to prove Calcifer wrong, Howell could not be certain the fire demon was. There was no denying that Sophie, in person, was an unbearable old baggage, but hearing about her today from her sister – who should well know her faults – Howell wondered once more just how much of Sophie's unpleasantness was due to the curse. It could not be easy to lose 60 years in a day, after all; even the least vain woman would balk at that.

Howell thought he might test Calcifer's theory and Lettie's assertions about Sophie's true nature by playing a little game. If he was at home more, and made sure to be as attractive as if he were out courting Sophie, but did not actually do so… If he tarried by her side, killing her with kindnesses and courtesies… Would Sophie continue to be rude to him, to think him an irredeemably wicked man? It was difficult to tell. She seemed to despise him so thoroughly. But Howell thought he might like to give it a go. Just to further the cause of Science, of course.

As for Lettie, some type of revenge was required before Howell could forgive her. And for the sake of his pride, he needed to find out just who this other man was and exactly what had made _him_ more loveable.

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**Author's Note:** In the next chapter, Howell will express his feelings with green slime, thus ending my coverage of the events in chapter 6 of _HMC_.


	8. In which Sophie declares herself

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Sophie, Michael, Calcifer

**Rating: **T

**Warning: **Spoilers for Jones' _Howl's Moving Castle_

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 8:** _In which Sophie declares herself through ginger-tinted sabotage_

It was a most out of sorts Howell who returned to the castle that afternoon, limping under the burden of a bruised ego, feeling restless, insecure, and emotionally confused. Sophie only made things worse by smiling at him as he came in the door and offering him lunch. Howell's refusal bordered on surly as he plunked Ben's guitar in the corner, still unable to look at her. He wanted to; he didn't want to; he was afraid what he might find if he did. Instead, Howell headed straight for the bathroom, demanding hot water of Calcifer. He needed a change. Something dramatic. Something drastic, to fit his mood.

If Lettie had been unable to love the old Howell, then the old Howell had to die. A new, more stunning, more attractive, more loveable Howell would emerge to take the old one's place. This is how it had always been. The current Howell at any given time could honestly say he had never been refused. That was the burden of those inferior Howells who had come before.

Just as he was about to shut himself in and begin this process of transformation, Howell paused in the doorway, eyeing the appallingly clean shelf of cosmetics, dubiously. Though he already knew the answer, he gave Sophie one last chance to confess to having moved things around. Howell fervently hoped that was truly _all_ she had done. He had no desire to put on a facial mask only to discover she had poured turpentine into the mixture. As much as Sophie seemed to despise him, Howell did not put it past her.

Sophie was unable to meet his eyes as she lied soundly of her innocence, providing him with no clues as to the safety or danger of using the cosmetic spells he was contemplating. With a frustrated huff, Howell slammed the bathroom door behind him. There was no help for it; he would just have to take the chance. Howell couldn't wait the time it would take to mix up new bottles of hair tint. The old unsuccessful, pathetic, "let's just be friends" Howell had to go. Now.

When he looked in the mirror to begin, Howell nearly had a fit. He could see his roots! Nearly a whole millimeter of dark mud had sullied the brilliant blond sun of is mane. When had this happened? How had he not noticed this morning? Then he remembered the great hurry he had been in to see Lettie and despaired. Was _this_ why she had chosen another even after he had so generously offered to help her find her missing sister? Howell was so frustrated by this glaring imperfection that he nearly tore his hair out by the roots. Then he decided he would look much worse bald, and refrained.

Taking a deep breath, Howell removed his jacket and laid it aside. He would begin by bleaching the devil out of his roots. Then, when he had shown them who was boss, he could contemplate the change he wanted to make. Perhaps something playful and unexpected. Blue and silver streaks to match his favourite suit -- perhaps even _green_ and silver for old Cymru. _That_ would certainly be different. Scandalous. Even the wig-makers in Kingsbury tended to think only in "natural" hair colours. Howell had not experimented much with actual colour since his days at boarding school. Perhaps it was high time he tried his hand at it again.

Howell rolled up his shirtsleeves and put on an extra colour-guard spell to protect his clothing as he prepared his tools and supplies. When he was satisfied that each necessary item had been arranged just so on the edge of the sink, Howell set about the arduous task of combing and painting and enduring the fumes for the requisite amount of time before rinsing and doing it all over again until his roots were the same shade as his ends. This was no easy task, as there were several different shades of blond to Howell's hair. He had to go a lock at a time in order to match the colour exactly. When he had completely done his roots, Howell rinsed his hair one last time before putting on a special powder he'd concocted to protect the colour and make it more vibrant. It also retarded the growth process so that more time would pass before his roots could put in another ghastly appearance. He would not have to get another haircut for at least a month, either, which was good, because his stylist in London was always booked at least four weeks in advance. Howell refused to let anyone else touch his hair.

Having spread the powder evenly, he put his jacket back on and sat down to clean his suit. Howell had just done the embroidery of one sleeve when he felt an unusual tingling sensation on his scalp and chanced to look up into the mirror on the far wall. His jaw dropped at the utterly un-blond shade of his damp hair. Howell clapped both hands to his face, horrified. This was hideous! This was _unthinkable_! This was **_sabotage_**!

Howell sprang to his feet and fled the mirrors surrounding him, unable to bear the sight for another second. He burst out into the middle of Sophie's and Michael's after lunch cleaning routine, wailing like a spirit of the damned. As usual, no one had any concern for Howell's tragedy; Sophie and Michael didn't even turn round. Mortifying as it was for any other living being to see him in this state of imperfection, Howell demanded their attention. He would not stand for being ignored in this time of crisis.

Much as he wanted to accuse the guilty party, Howell would not allow himself to attack Sophie directly. In his present mood, there was no telling what he might say to her. Instead, he grieved over his fate and the folly of generosity which had led him to it, wondering aloud just what she had done to his cosmetics.

Sophie began to claim her innocence, but Howell refused to relinquish center stage to give ear to her lies and excuses. **He** was the one who was suffering. **He** was the one who had been victimised. **He **the one who would have to hide his beautiful person away from the world until his hair had grown out once more. The tragedy! His renowned and highly sought-after self, cloistered away from his adoring fans like some ginger-haired leper.

Howell could think of no better way to bring home to Sophie the utter ruin she had brought upon him than demanding she examine the evil she had wrought. Michael came over, too, poor caring soul that he was, and both of them bent over his pan-fried hair and bore witness to the carnage. Howell was just working himself up to a histrionic sob or two when Sophie, that remorseless fiend of a woman, had the gall to suggest the colour looked nice. He nearly went out of his mind.

**Never** in his _life_ had Howell met someone so callus, so insensitive, so apathetic toward his personal plight. Any kind feelings toward Sophie which Lettie's words might have inspired in him that morning disappeared in a blast of fire and brimstone as Howell's temper kindled. He could no longer restrain his accusations, screaming them into her long-nosed, guilty old face. It was true; misery loved company. Clearly this was Sophie's revenge on him for not having removed her curse yet. Howell very nearly said as much, but that would reveal that he knew her secret, and the time for that had not yet come.

At this rate, it never would. Howell could not begin his game/experiment with Sophie looking like this. Just having seen him in this inferior state might have ruined what little chance he'd had of eventually winning her over. Howell wanted to die.

And he would never be able to get his revenge on Lettie, either. No woman in the nine kingdoms could love the ginger-haired monstrosity Sophie had made of him. He was doomed to live out the rest of his days alone and unloved, his only companions a slow but well-meaning apprentice, a spiteful and unsympathetic fire demon, and this she-devil who was determined to make his life hell on earth.

Howell flung his arms wide, his abject misery all-encompassing. The Sophoclean tragedy of his life was far too monumentous to be expressed through mere emotion, so he bellowed his catharsis-inducing state for all the world to hear. "Despair! Anguish! Horror!" Spoken like words of power, Howell's feelings worked a sudden change on his surroundings. His black despair blocked out the light. His heart-rending anguish summoned forth dark figures from the shadows, which then gave voice to his unspeakable horror.

And still no one felt the least bit of sympathy for Howell. Sophie covered her ears against his anguished cries, amplified though they were through the constructs of Howell's despair. Calcifer disappeared beneath his logs. But it was dear, understanding Michael who hurt Howell most of all, grabbing Sophie's arm and fleeing the house all together. If they thought they had escaped him in Porthaven, they were wrong. Howell sent his overblown emotions out into the salt sea air after them, screaming his rage and grief at their abandonment of him in his time of need.

They had left him all alone, quarantined in his own home with no help, as if he truly were a leper. Well, if it was pestilence they expected, Howell would give it them! All of the negative feelings welled up inside him and began to ooze from Howell's pores like a virulent poison. Calcifer was shouting something at him, but as it clearly did not contain any words of comfort, Howell did not care to listen.

The shrieks inside-out of Howell were building to a breaking point as they pursued Michael and Sophie through the streets of Porthaven, demanding their attention and sympathy. When they reached the remorseless damper of the sea, Howell could push no further. As hard as he had tried, they had firmly turned their backs on him.

Calcifer was wrong. Howell did not love Sophie. He would and could _never_ love Sophie, because it was now more clear than ever just how much she hated him. No matter what he did, she was determined to make him miserable. After trying for three weeks to ruin his life through the methodical destruction of his home, Sophie had hit upon this new tactic, attacking him directly where it would hurt most – his fragile vanity.

Howell would never understand why Sophie hated him so. He had tried so hard to get on with her, to make her smile, in spite of it all. He had been nothing but kind, courteous, generous – even indulgent, at times – since she had appeared in his home that fateful morning. As hard as she had worked to provoke his anger, Howell had continued to be as pleasant as humanly possible to her. And this was how she repaid him.

No, Calcifer was dead wrong. Howell did not love Sophie. If he had and she had done this terrible, unthinkably cruel thing to him, he would have had no choice but to take his own life.

All the same, Howell's life was over now, meaningless, empty, before he'd even reached the age of thirty. Before he'd ever come to know true love. He would never have a little Mari of his own and the beautiful mother that went with her as he'd once dreamed.

Howell slouched on the stool before the hearth and sobbed, forlorn and broken. Why didn't Sophie love him? _Why?_

When both Howell's tears and magic had been exhausted, he sat, unmoving, numb, staring straight ahead at nothing, a stone statue covered in viscous despair. Calcifer was wailing at him to stop before he killed them both, but Howell couldn't be bothered to care about anything anymore. As his life was already over, he may as well stop his heart beating, too. That way at least Sophie and Michael might feel a bit guilty when they came home and realised they had just left him here to die.

As luck would have it, the two of them returned before he could quite manage it. They did not even have the decency to hide their horror at Howell's palpable misery as it oozed slowly across the floor and into the fireplace. He listened, detached, as Calcifer called to them for help, but it was too late; his fire was almost out.

To Howell's surprise, they did not flee again to let him drown alone in his despair. Sophie marched over like a militant housewife and berated him for his behaviour, shouting at Howell to stop at once. She did not understand. She could never understand his feelings. Howell was chained to this cruel fate, bound for all time to love the one woman in two worlds who would never return his love. And Sophie could not spare him a single kind word. Not even now, when he was at his absolute lowest.

Michael, at least, seemed to recognize the gravity of the situation – though he assumed Howell to be dead already. He did sound quite sorry for it, though, a fact which gave the Wizard some small comfort. But then Sophie had to ruin the moment by saying he was just fine and that she did not care a whit for his own state but that it was endangering Calcifer.

So there it was again. Howell had not been wrong. Perhaps the fire demon had not meant to steal Sophie away from him, but he clearly had succeeded in doing so regardless. All Sophie cared about was Calcifer's well-being. Howell's abject misery meant nothing to her.

Sophie rolled up her sleeves and put her back into the work of counteracting his sorrowful excretions in order to save Calcifer. Howell got his revenge on her, though, by making the pools fizzle and smoke and put forth an awful stench. It was not a satisfying victory, however.

Before Howell knew it, and most unexpectedly, Sophie was bending down before him and had placed her hands on his knees, heedless of the acidic slime covering them. He was about to dare to hope that she had had a change of heart and was concerned for him after all when Sophie began to shove, pushing him across the floor like a piece of furniture. No doubt, she was trying to get his disgusting person as far away from the hearth as possible in order to preserve her precious Calcifer.

When Michael grabbed hold of Howell's clothing and _helped_ her to move him, Howell felt utterly betrayed. By the time they reached the bathroom, he had determined to be as uncooperative as possible with whatever they might have planned. But that did not stop them. They merely lifted him into the shower, stool and all, to douse him with scalding hot water for the better part of an hour.

When they grabbed his pumice stone and loofah and began to literally scrub the ooze off him, Howell had to bite the inside of his cheeks to maintain his frozen mask of tragedy. He was terribly ticklish. Once his clothing was slime-free, Sophie left to find him something to put on while Michael peeled the ruined, sopping wet fabric from his body. Then it took another hour of scrubbing to get the last traces of toxin off his skin. Howell was raw and red by the end, and he felt like a boiled lobster. What with the horrible hair on top of his tender skin, he probably looked like one, too. Howell remained frozen on the stool, afraid to look in the mirror and see it was true.

As Sophie had been gone now for quite some time – apparently she did have SOME sense of shame – Howell allowed Michael to coax him into his spare suit after only an hour. He still made his apprentice dress him, however; Howell couldn't find energy to do more than stand. He was pacified by the young man's concern for him and the tender care he was taking with everything. At least ONE person in his household would have been sorry to come home and find Howell deceased.

Hours later, ooze-less, dry, and dressed at last, Michael took Howell's hand and led him from the bathroom to Sophie's chair. Howell sat in it, tragic and doleful, wishing he had a bit more poison in him with which to ruin the old harridan's fireside seat. Naturally, the first words out of Calcifer's mouth were a scolding. Clearly he had been spending so much time with Sophie that the fire demon had begun to pick up her attitude toward him. Howell found this truly depressing, as he had once considered Calcifer his closest friend. He hadn't the heart to answer with any unkind words of his own; he merely sat where he was, silent and shivering, though whether that was from being damp or the emotional trauma, Howell did not know.

To his amazement, Sophie offered her own explanation to Calcifer's unkind question. It was not a particularly flattering explanation, but she had still interceded on his behalf. It made Howell feel almost warm again. All of a sudden, Sophie did not seem to have any unkind words for him; perhaps she was just tired. But if she was, Howell seemed to have at least finally worked himself into Sophie's jurisdiction of others to care for. She warmed some milk for him, even inconveniencing Calcifer to do so, and pressed a warm mug into Howell's cold hands.

Though her manner was still abrupt, he suddenly felt almost…cared for. Howell sipped the milk as ordered, his mind returning to chill, damp Welsh mornings spent home sick from school with his mother. When Sophie asked him next what was wrong, Howell wanted to lean over and rest his head against her.

Of course he could not tell her what was really the matter. That would spoil everything. And it would prove, in front of Calcifer, that the fire demon had been right. Since Sophie had made a guess as to what the trouble was, Howell decided to lie in that direction. It _had_ been dreadfully hurtful and insulting to find out that Lettie had fallen for someone else, after all. Howell peeped up at Sophie from beneath his long bangs to see if she had fallen for his story. His whole chest gave a hopeful contraction when he saw the look of naked sympathy in her eyes.

If there was one fault Howell was perhaps guilty of, it was milking a situation. He leapt to the task now, laying it on thick as he related his woes of the morning; perhaps a little too thick. When Sophie suggested he enchant Lettie to be fond of him, Howell felt the need to defend his honour. That would be cheating, and Howell had only ever won his favourite game by honest, conventional means. This explanation, however, did not seem to meet with Sophie's approval. She chided him for not taking Lettie's feelings into consideration. Feeling he'd been abused enough for one day, Howell chose to misunderstand her words.

Curious how Sophie would feel if she knew it was her sister he had been courting, Howell decided to drop the bomb. Suppressing a mischievous smile, he averted his gazed to the bottom of his empty mug as he revealed the identity of the woman who had spurned him. Sophie went very pale and backed away from Howell as if he were the devil himself. She did not speak another word to him all evening, and went to bed early. Howell found this to be a very interesting reaction.

He pondered it, alone in his bedroom after Michael had helped him up the stairs and tucked him in. Howell had fully expected Sophie to become angry with him, to perhaps take the approach of a protective aunt and come after him with the fireplace poker. But she hadn't. She'd looked horrified, an expression which seemed somehow familiar. And she had not seemed at all relieved by the news he had been unsuccessful. Perhaps Sophie had more faith in his abilities to win Lettie away from this other man than Howell himself did. That was quite flattering -- and implied that Sophie _did_ see something attractive in him, even if she did not act on it.

Howell's thoughts returned to her compliment on his infernally botched hair tint. Curious, he took the hand mirror from his bedside table and gazed at himself. What an utterly un-blond mess she had made of him. And why ginger? Howell had worn burgundy, copper, and even fire-engine red in his hair before, but never this. He didn't think it suited his skin tone at all. Why, of all the colours under the rainbow had Sophie chosen to curse him with _this_ particular shade? She hadn't seemed to be lying when she'd said it was nice, though he'd assumed at the time she had been in order to avert his wrath. He pondered the exact shade in the mirror. Ginger…red-gold…strawberry blond…

Then, all of a sudden, it dawned on him. Howell sat straight up in bed. No. It couldn't be.

…could it?

That frightened expression that had looked so familiar, her resemblance to Lettie, it all fell right into place.

Seen her before? Of course he'd seen her before! In his mind's eye, he had been unable to _stop_ seeing her ever since that day. Howell laughed out loud at the caprice of Fortune.

A moment later, Michael knocked before sticking his head in, looking not a little concerned for his master's mental health. "Er… Everything all right, Howl?"

"Everything is **perfect**, Michael!" Howell declared with a wide, sunny smile. He threw his arms wide as if to embrace the world. "Magnificent!"

Michael looked even more doubtful of Howell's sanity. "Er…all right then. Just shout if you need anything."

As the young man made a hasty retreat, Howell wrapped his arms around himself and fell back into his pillows, throwing up a billowing cloud of dust with the movement. What an extraordinary day this had been. Just a few hours ago, he could not have been more miserable. And now, he felt the happiest he had ever been. Howell fell asleep with a smile still etched across his face.

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**Author's Note: **This chapter took a lot of work and trouble. I hope the result is worth it to the readers.

The one line of dialogue, of course, belongs to DWJ. Probably one of the most quoted lines in the whole novel, and well it should be.

In the next chapter, Howell will visit the royal court and a few old "friends."


	9. Adventures with a charmed suit

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Sophie

**Rating: **M

**Warning:** Spoilers for DWJ's _Howl's Moving Castle_

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 9:** _Adventures with a charmed suit_

The next morning, Howell awoke early from the most blissful, restful sleep he had had in months. Tripping lightly down the stairs, he noticed (from the snoring) that Sophie was still asleep, and stopped to take a peek. Though her normally bitter expression had gone with Sophie's consciousness, Howell found it difficult to see any traces of his beloved ginger-haired mouse in the recumbent figure drooling unbecomingly onto her pillow. His present had been hidden well in a most unattractive wrapping of old age and a sour attitude. Still, he knew she was there; it would just take time to coax forth his timid beauty once more.

Smiling at the possibilities, Howell quietly shut himself into the bathroom and prepared for a day at Court. He relaxed into his morning routine, taking his time. Howell felt he owed it to himself after the short shower and toilette yesterday -- the involuntary scrubbing last night did not count. He was feeling so good about the world this morning, Howell began to hum a happy tune as he got ready. There was no one to hear but him, after all, and as he was tone deaf, Howell's own voice sounded as good to him as any. By the time he'd teased the last pale ginger strand of hair into place, the humming had escalated to actual singing, something Howell very rarely did sober. After last night, it was perhaps not surprising that the love song he'd subconsciously chosen was "Bugeilio'r Gwenyth Gwyn." Unlike poor Wil in the song, however, Howell was not about to let anyone or anything come between Sophie and himself -- including Sophie. Though she was the reason for his singing, Howell made sure to keep his voice fairly soft, so as not to waken her.

The current fashion at Court tending toward extravagant floral fragrances, Howell chose one of his subtler perfumes; he liked to stand apart. Also, he would be away from his honeybee all day long, and had no wish to accidentally ensnare another with the scent of honeysuckle. Howell was just applying the apple blossom when he heard someone quietly hobbling about the front room and threw the door open to greet his unruly sun. Sophie turned and hit him with the full force of one of her most acerbic lemon faces, freezing the "good morning" in his throat. Howell switched tactics, agreeing aloud with her statement from the night before about his new hair colour instead. Surely she would recognise it as a peace offering, though it was also a thank you of sorts.

When she did not seem moved, Howell complimented Sophie more directly by commenting on his mended suit. Lettie had been right, he considered, as he walked to the door and prepared to leave. Since Sophie had got hold of it, his second favourite ensemble seemed to suit him better than it ever had. And it _meant_ something when Howell thought he looked better than usual; he always felt he looked stunning. Hearing Sophie's surly grunt of a response, Howell stopped and turned to see what was the matter.

She looked even less impressed with him than usual. Howell wondered what he'd done wrong this time. When Sophie did not respond to his inquiry about her arthritis, Howell made the mistake of asking what had put her in such a mood. This seemed to be just the opening Sophie had been waiting for. She jumped on it, denouncing his exploits of the night before with the enthusiasm and sanctimony of a Puritan minister. Howell could not help but chuckle. 90 years old or not, Sophie was adorable when she scolded him indirectly. Still, it was possible to have too much of a good thing, and Howell knew if he didn't leave soon, he never would.

With a fond smile, Howell tendered an apology to Sophie for having annoyed her, as that's what she'd really been ranting about, after all. Then he gave her his itinerary for the day and promised to ease her aches and pains when he returned. As he spoke, Sophie's expression softened a bit. Truly, a little apology went a long way. Howell could do it easily now that he'd admitted to himself he loved her. He took her reaction as a good sign; things would get better between them. Soon.

Howell reminded Sophie to tell Michael about his homework and then paused, trying to decide on an appropriate farewell. He wanted it to be something that expressed his newfound feelings, but subtly. The game was not over yet, and Howell didn't want to frighten his poor little mouse again by displaying his enthusiasm too openly. Unable to find the right words, Howell settled for a warm smile that encompassed his elation and relief at having found her again. Then he stepped out into the spotless, cobbled streets of Kingsbury and forced himself to shut the door.

Hovering on the opposite side, almost certain he had heard Sophie mutter something at his back, Howell reminded himself he would see her again this evening. Then he finally set off upon his journey at a far less than enthusiastic pace. Howell was never in the mood to see the King, and he was not feeling up to dealing with backstabbing Court politics just now, either. But he had little choice. The King would see him when he would see him, and in the meantime, Howell would be stuck with the social group he had purposefully left behind three years ago.

Reluctant as he was, Howell took his time walking to the Palace. Passing Market Square, he lingered at the most extravagant flower stall, looking for daffodils. Naturally, there were none; it was the wrong time of year for them. Howell wandered away, dissatisfied, realising he should have asked Lettie about Sophie's second favourite flower when he'd found out her first was an annual. Then it occurred to him he could grow flowers out of season in his secret garden at the edge of the Waste. He would do it. And bring her back some of those luscious red beauties he had grown last week while daydreaming. Even Sophie couldn't huff and turn up her nose at _those_ flowers. This resolution perked Howell up considerably.

He wasted a good part of the morning wandering around Kingsbury in this fashion, walking up to shop windows and open air stalls, thinking of what he would buy for Sophie when he had the time to spare for a shopping excursion. Howell wouldn't ask her what she would like; he was certain Sophie would not tell him. Besides, it was more fun for it to be a surprise, to guess and choose for himself what might look good on her or make her smile.

After more than two hours of this, Howell knew he couldn't delay appearing for his appointment any longer. He forced his legs to carry him to the Grande Staircase of the Palace, and stopped at the bottom, feeling put upon. It was the proper ingress for commoners and foreigners who had business with the King, but Howell had grown spoiled in the time he had spent attending the Royal Court in Mrs. Pentstemmon's stead. Then he had come and gone as he'd pleased. Howell did not treasure the thought of being treated just like everyone else, passed from immaculate gloved hands to gloved hands until he'd reached whatever royal chamber the King was occupying today.

The fact remained, Howell was **not** like everyone else. Watching the other visitors toiling up the endless stairs in the humid summer air, he could not resist a little demonstration to prove this fact. "Good morning." He greeted the first soldier in scarlet, a mere boy, with a smile before stepping purposefully onto one of the large granite tiles at the bottom of the staircase. Slowly, the heavy piece of masonry rose into the air with Howell standing on it quite camly. He smiled and flicked generously condescending little waves at the passing soldiers as the tile floated smoothly up the 313 stairs. They hadn't honestly expected him to walk all that way, had they?

Howell's method of ascension did cause somewhat of a commotion, however, as some of the Guard seemed to think he might be flying in to launch an aerial attack on the Palace. At the top of the stairs, he made a graceful landing and stepped off the tile only to be met by several nervous-looking soldiers with bayonets lowered, attempting to surround him. Howell smiled sunnily at them and bowed deeply. "Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you. Really, there's no need to applaud." This reaction thoroughly confused the Guard, and four of the five stopped to turn for guidance to the one hung with more badges and gold braid than the rest. Their commander was just bending down to pick up the heavy tile which had transported Howell up the staircase, attempting – and failing -- to make it appear lighter than it was. "'ere," he called to Howell, panting under the weight of it. "Wot'm I supposed to do with this, then?"

The Wizard turned to him with an innocent smile. "If I were you, my good man, I should replace it. Someone might trip and twist their ankle in the gap."

The soldier's considerable brow drew down to create a formidable scowl. "Not bloody likely. You're the one what took it out to begin with. _You _put it back."

Howell shrugged, cool as a cucumber. "Very well." With the twitch of a finger (and a subtly-cast spell), the stone jerked out of the guard's hands and drifted back down the stairs, light as a feather. As it passed, visitors' and soldiers' heads alike turned to track its progress. As the tile fit neatly back into its original slot, there was a soft, collective "ahhh." The braid-wearing guard, however, was looking even less pleased than before. "Get back in your positions!" he bellowed, as a low murmur began to circulate over the spectacle. When his subordinates had cut the chatter and resumed their statuesque stations, he turned back to Howell, who was in the process of subtly sneaking away.

"Oi!" Unfortunately, he caught up to Howell rather quickly. "Look 'ere. I'm Captain Long, and I'm assigned to make sure there's no funny business on the Grande Stair." Though they were of similar heights, the soldier was perhaps twice Howell's width, and managed to loom over him somehow. "And that, my poncy little friend, is wot I calls funny."

Howell began to get nervous. Not because he doubted that he could body-check the guard if he had to and send him careening head over heels down the stairs, which the guard had unwisely put his back to. Not because he didn't know he could turn the Captain into a toad in the blink of an eye and shut him up for good. Howell was nervous because he didn't think either would be considered particularly good form, taking into account that he was a guest at the Palace. Fortunately, he was saved from having to decide this question of etiquette by an audience of which he had been unaware.

"Captain Long," an authoritative voice called from the direction of the first archway behind Howell. "That will do, thank you." It was clear from the expression on his face, the soldier wanted to argue, but knew better. His mouth shut with an audible snap and he bowed stiffly to the speaker before throwing Howell a warning glare en route to resume his post.

Howell smoothed his clothing and turned to greet his benefactor. "Eustace!" he cried, throwing his arms open in insincere welcome. "Fancy meeting you here! It's been far too long, old fellow." As he approached the older man, the Lord Chamberlain took Howell in from head to toe, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes evidencing more disgust and disapproval than ever Sophie could have managed. But then, he'd had more practice.

"You're late," was all the greeting Howell received in return. "His Majesty called for you an hour ago. Where were you? You were summoned to appear by nine hours this morning."

"Yes, I'm dreadfully sorry about that," Howell lied. "But alas, a wizard's work is never done. I came just as soon as I could manage it."

The Lord Chamberlain turned and began to lead the way through the procession of arches. "And by 'work' you no doubt mean some local strumpet who happened to catch your eye on the way to the Palace," he drawled, glaring at Howell from the corner of his eye with an expression of utter distaste. "Some things never change."

Howell did not defend himself; there was no point. In the eyes of the Lord Chamberlain, he would be guilty no matter what he said. And it was so much more fun to tease him. Knowing exactly how much of a breech of propriety it was, Howell clapped the older man on the back and proceeded down the arched corridor with his hand on the Lord Chamberlain's shoulder, as if they were fast friends. "You're right, old man. Some things never do." To the Lord Chamberlain's credit, though all the muscles in his back and shoulders went tense, he did not shrug Howell off or call for the Guard to remove him. Howell was certain this was because the old buzzard had something better up his sleeve.

One clear advantage to proceeding to his appointment escorted by the Lord Chamberlain himself was not having to stop in each successive vestibule and wait to have his business announced and to be passed on to the next clerk. It was also frightfully amusing to see the looks on everyone's faces as they strolled by so chummily. The Lord Chamberlain was not precisely known for his amicability. In fact, he had no friends in the Palace to speak of, his eternally dour mood and hatred for most things in this world being primary reasons why.

When the Lord Chamberlain spoke again, he sounded a bit out of breath, as if it took him some effort to get the words out. "Because you were late, I rescheduled your appointment for three hours after noon."

"Excellent!" Howell replied to what was obviously supposed to be upsetting news with a smile. They had reached the bottom of the marble stair leading to the Royal Apartments, and Howell finally let his arm drop, expecting the Lord Chamberlain to let him proceed on his own from here. Climbing stairs was no easy task for the old man these days. But as Howell placed his foot on the first stair, his unhappy companion followed, turning to him with a trademark scowl.

"You always were a cheeky monkey." Something about the way the Lord Chamberlain was looking at him caused Howell's skin to threaten goose bumps. "The next time you fail to arrive on time to a Royal Summons, I shall have you clapped in irons." The old man seemed a bit too enthusiastic about this idea. Howell shrugged off the creepy feeling and proceeded up the stairs slowly, so as not to give the Lord Chamberlain, who seemed determined to accompany him the whole way, a heart attack.

"You misjudge me, Eustace." Howell focused his attention once more on their sparring banter. "You know I have nothing but the utmost _respect_ for you." The eyes of the blue-clad guard they passed on the stairs bugged out rather at the Wizard's use of the Lord Chamberlain's given name. Howell congratulated himself on having cleverly contradicted his own words in the same breath. "I was merely showing enthusiasm about the extra time you've allowed me to catch up with old friends."

"Indeed," the Lord Chamberlain said, dryly. An unpleasant smirk appeared on his old sourpuss, confirming Howell's suspicion that he had something more in store for the Wizard, to punish him for being late. Or perhaps just for old time's sake. There had been a war of sorts ongoing between them for years now, ever since they had first exchanged words outside the preventative hearing of Mrs. Pentstemmon. Howell was curious to see what the old man had planned for him this time.

They progressed up the stairs even more slowly than he would have expected. Howell turned back and noticed that the Lord Chamberlain was missing his staff of office, which had come to function as more of a walking stick in recent years. Before Howell could offer assistance, one of the stairway attendants rushed forward to offer himself as substitute for the cane. The Lord Chamberlain waved him away and growled, "No. There is someone present who is to blame for my having to traverse these stairs. Someone who will shoulder that responsibility, thank you."

Howell quietly took the hint and stepped down within reach. He had nothing against the Lord Chamberlain that would have justified a rude refusal. In spite of their ongoing rivalry, Howell had grown almost fond of the old goat over the years. Right now, however, the Lord Chamberlain leaned on him quite a bit more thoroughly than Howell felt necessary -- especially since he could suddenly climb the stairs quite capably. "How's your health, old man?" Howell inquired pointedly.

"Dreadful." The Lord Chamberlain's voice sounded a bit breathless once more. "I believe my eyesight to be going." He turned his head, and Howell became suddenly aware of just how close they were. The Lord Chamberlain's very respectable nose was practically brushing against his hair. Howell's skin threatened goose bumps again, and his feelings of uneasiness were not helped by the other man next dropping his voice to a murmur. "Unless, of course, you really _have _gone and tinted your hair pink this time."

Suddenly the Lord Chamberlain was far too close for Howell's comfort. He had always suspected the older man rather fancied him, which was half the fun of their little war. But the Lord Chamberlain had never before been quite so blatant about his interest. Howell had to back up a step or succumb to a rather impolite shudder. He considered it a victory he had managed not to leap back as if burned. "It's _ginger_," Howell said with an uncomfortable laugh.

The Lord Chamberlain turned away and continued up the stairs on his own, and the moment seemed to pass. "That's not ginger," he replied, snappishly. "Wizard Suliman's hair was ginger. That, my dear boy, is just pink." It distressed Howell that everyone seemed to be referring to Ben in past tense these days. But he was so relieved to no longer have the Lord Chamberlain's attention or weight resting on him, Howell made no further comment about either hair or countryman.

When they reached the top of the stairs, the old man seemed to have recovered his usual mood and carriage, and they proceeded down the Great Hall together, Howell careful to keep out of arm's reach this time. It was curious that the Lord Chamberlain was still accompanying him. As they approached the large double doors to the salon which seemed to be their destination, the older man lagged behind a bit, and Howell got the distinct feeling his bum was being looked at. This time, he could not completely suppress the shudder. Howell quickly turned round, trying his best to ignore his flight instinct when he saw the predatory look on the old vulture's face. "It's been a pleasure, as always, Eustace." Howell summoned up a smile and bowed a farewell.

"Oh, you're not quite so fortunate as that." The old man's beady eyes held a demonic glint. "Allow me to accompany you inside. There's someone I must introduce to you."

Howell suppressed his unbecoming fit of nerves as they entered the salon together. The atmosphere of the room was fashionably bored and silently competitive as ever. All eyes turned to the new arrivals as they stepped inside. All, that was, but two. A rather corpulent figure dressed in outdated fashion complete with baggy stockings, pantaloons, and a cape draped over one shoulder remained with his back to the door. Howell recognized him immediately. The smell alone would have been enough, the stench which passed for the man's cologne having attacked Howell's olfactory senses as soon as they'd entered the room. He suppressed a groan.

The smirk was back on the Lord Chamberlain's face as he led Howell directly to this disinterested figure holding a miniature court at the center of the room. They stopped just behind him, and, turning to Howell with an unpleasant smile, the old man made the introduction to the unfashionable courtier's back, projecting his voice to carry around the room as only a skilled actor or chamberlain could. "Wizard Pendragon, may I present the Viscomte de Montmorency, personal attaché to the Royal Ambassador from Low Norland."

During his days at court, the Viscomte and Howell had been bitter and infamous enemies. Bad as his temper was once provoked, Howell was not an angry sort of person. There were few people in two worlds Howell genuinely hated. The Viscomte bore the dubious honour of being one of these. Even Howell's dislike for his abusive brother-in-law could not quite compare to the depth of his loathing for this shallow, pompous, rude, untalented, self-important wanker.

The Lord Chamberlain knew full well that they were already well-acquainted. This was just his revenge on Howell for being late. A smile which was no smile at all froze on the Wizard's face. He flicked laughing green eyes to the Lord Chamberlain from within the mask of his expression. The old man really had got him this time. "Touché," Howell said softly.

"Next time, be punctual!" the Lord Chamberlain hissed before making good his exit in a swirl of robes. This left Howell alone with someone he had hoped never to see again. His not-smile spread into an overly-polite, toothsome snarl as the Viscomte turned slowly round to face him, aiming his beaklike nose somewhere in the vicinity of Howell's chin. For all his ego, he could not have been taller than five foot. The Viscomte's expression never seemed to waver from one of priggish distaste, his left eyebrow having become permanently lost somewhere in his receding hairline. When his disturbing turquoise eyes met Howell's own Welsh green, the Viscomte made a foreign noise of disgust.

"Monsieur Penny. It is – how you say? – disenchantiment horriblé to see you once more. I had hope the King of Ingary would learn to keep the common garbage from his court by now." The words were punctuated by a knife-sharp smile which bared crooked yellow teeth Howell had no desire to see from a distance, much less up close.

"Monty!" Howell smiled warmly in return. "The King of Low Norland still can't bear having you in the same country, I see. Pity. We had such high hopes when last you returned home." A chuckle emerged from the periphery of observers grouped into political cliques around the room.

With a dismissive sniff, the Viscomte smoothed his ruffled dignity. Turning his long nose up at Howell, he addressed the gaggle of sycophants hovering at his elbow. "As we say in Brette-Gallance, 'The dog, he bark, but no one listen.' Dog barkings is nothing which concern the doings of people."

As a hesitant and confused laughter followed from the Viscomte's toadies, Howell put fingertips to his lips in order to suppress a chuckle. Clearly, three years absence had done nothing to improve the Viscomte's Inglish. He composed himself before delivering a parting quip. "Quite right, quite right. And as we say in _my_ country, 'A horse's arse may blow hot air, but it's nothing you want to be downwind of.'" There was more laughter to Howell's credit this time. "Therefore, if you'll excuse me…" He bowed and quickly stepped out of range before the duel of words could continue. Howell would rather have driven railroad spikes under his fingernails than spend another minute exchanging unpleasantries with his old enemy. Behind him, he could hear the Viscomte taking breath to continue. Fortunately – in a manner of speaking – Howell's attention was quickly monopolised by a particularly brutal attack of a completely different nature.

"Wizard Howl, you naughty, naughty man! How _could_ you keep yourself from court for so long?" The Duchess of Kamburra descended upon him like a starved rhinoceros in a three foot wig. "You _know_ there are those among us who miss you _dreadfully_!"

Howell was just about to offer a polite but deflective answer when he came under attack from the rear. "It's cruel, Howl!" The Marquise of Saulsbhree pouted prettily at him from behind a lace fan worth more than his house in Porthaven. "How _could_ you stay away, you heartless person!"

Howell chuckled at the unintentional joke no one else would get. "Now, Charlotte—" But before he could continue, yet another affection-starved noble lady put in an appearance, this one boldly snaking a gloved arm around his waist. The singular cutesie voice in which the Lady Amanda insisted on speaking was not a sound Howell had missed in the least since they'd parted ways.

"Don't _dare_ say it was business that kept you away." She pressed her cheek to his chest and fluttered caterpillar-like fake eyelashes at the distressed Wizard. "You're brilliant, Howl. I remember well just how quickly you could complete a commission when you wished to be _elsewhere_." Howell balked at the lascivious smirk that quirked her pouty lips, as well as the face powder she had just smeared on his newly-mended jacket. Knowing that Sophie had held it in her hands not twelve hours before gave him the resolve he needed to put his hands on the Lady's shoulders and step determinedly out of her clutches. But it seemed Howell was not meant to escape, for a fourth party arrived to block his exit just as he was slithering out.

Before he knew it, Howell had been swarmed by a crowd of no less than ten ladies who remained with him for the duration of the afternoon. He was used to being popular with noblewomen at Court, but this eager display was most irregular. The one or two in the surrounding throng with whom Howell had not been previously acquainted elbowed their way to the fore and thrust themselves at him like merchants desperate to unload unwholesome goods. The rest of the ladies seemed to have forgot they were ladies at all and, compelled to stay in some sort of physical contact with him at all times, glared at one another as they staked invisible claims to Howell he very nearly resented. Howell was mercilessly pawed, clutched, fondled, patted, groped, kissed, and clasped to powdered bosoms all afternoon. He could hardly rebuff the advances of one woman without unwittingly backing into the eager claws of another.

This was all very flattering, of course, but whereas Howell had always striven to be admired by women, it was not quite the same to be handled like a piece of raw meat in a cage full of ravenous panthers. There had been a time in his life – not so very long ago – when his current predicament would have been a desirable thing to Howell, at least on an intellectual level. But that time was past. Howell found now that he felt eternally grateful to have a cranky old woman waiting for him at home who was very happy to sit across the room and glare at him without the least threat of forced physical contact whatever. All the while he was being womanhandled, Howell dreamed of being at home and having a ripping good fight with Sophie. If only he not had to come to Court today.

When Howell finally did manage to escape for a moment to have a chat with one of his old _male _acquaintances, a fight broke out between the Duchess of Kamburra and the Marquise of Saulsbhree. Unflattering names were exchanged, voices were raised, and then, without warning, all pretense of civilisation disappeared. It turned into quite a scuffle, complete with wig-pulling, open-handed slapping, and face-scratching. While they tumbled over and under one another on the sumptuous oriental carpeting, the Blue Guard was called in to put a stop to it. Naturally, the confused young men were at a loss for precisely how to separate the two ladies without touching them in a manner less than appropriate, respectful, or chivalrous. Though the Duchess looked to be fairly squishing the Marquise to death, Howell could not blame the guards for hesitating to join the fray. Fights between women were vicious things. Howell watched from a safe distance as spouses were sent for to have a go at placating them.

"You seem to be irresistible today," an amused voice spoke up from behind Howell's left shoulder. He turned to find it belonged to the Earl of Cheeshire, a handsome rogue of approximately Howell's age who had always been one of the more stable and sane members of the Court. He and Howell had become friends back in the day through a mutual love of games and women, not to mention dual infamy in and success with both. Howell had had a marvelous time trading stories back and forth with Jasper in those days. The Earl smiled at him and proffered an extra snifter of brandy. "You look as though you could use it."

Howell accepted, gratefully, answering, "They missed me, I suppose." In truth, he was perplexed as anyone why reactions to him had been so manically enthusiastic today. First the Lord Chamberlain, then a full two thirds of the ladies present at Court. Howell had a nervous suspicion that last third had only maintained its distance out of respect for lovers and husbands present. Perhaps, he mused, women were especially keen on ginger-haired men. Howell could not recall Ben Sullivan having comparable success with women, but – unlike Howell and Jasper -- he was the quiet, retiring sort, and very discreet; the sort of man who truly did not kiss and tell. So Howell supposed it might have been true, and he had not noticed at the time. If that was the case, he decided a hat was compulsory the next time he was summoned to the Palace.

Taking note of Howell's residual distress, the Earl steered him to an anteroom several cleverly-chosen turns away from the salon before the womenfolk could miss him. The Wizard collapsed gratefully into a plush, wing-backed smoking chair, taking a long drink from his glass. When he came up for air, he said, with weary awe, "I never thought I'd see the day when being surrounded by attractive women could be a bad thing."

Jasper chuckled. "I've never seen you look so frightened of a woman's advances." He paused and swirled the brandy in his own glass for a moment, thoughtful. "You've finally fallen in love, haven't you?"

This sudden and completely unexpected accusation caused Howell to project his mouthful of brandy across the room, managing to inhale a few drops in the process. He doubled over in his chair, coughing, his nose and throat burning from the fiery liquid. The Earl smiled kindly and thumped him on the back until his fit of coughing abated. "I thought as much. Bound to happen sooner or later, old chap. You can only go through so many women before you find the right one."

Howell collapsed back into his chair, red-faced and teary-eyed. "Well, what about _you_?" he asked, defensive and hoarse. Jasper winked and held up his left hand, wiggling his ring finger to show off the plain gold band that rested there.

"Just this spring, as a matter of fact."

"Why, you old dog! You didn't say."

His friend smiled and shrugged. "I did try to send you an invitation, but the messengers kept getting lost."

Howell felt somewhat guilty. There were definite disadvantages to placing misdirection spells on one's home. "Dreadfully sorry, old chap. I'm terribly difficult to get hold of these days. Had to sacrifice good acquaintances along with the bad in order to preserve my privacy."

The Earl gestured dismissively. "Think nothing of it. Happens to the best of us. But tell me more about this extraordinary young lady who's managed to corral the great scoundrel Pendragon."

Howell grew hot around the collar, and he flapped one hand, attempting to ward off the question. Admitting to himself that he loved Sophie was one thing – and still a very recent and tender discovery. Speaking about it in public, to the hub of the Court rumour mill, no less, was a different matter all together. "I would hardly use the word 'corralled' at this point…"

Jasper's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You mean she hasn't yet accepted you? What delicious irony!" As the Earl took another sip of his drink, Howell began to squirm, feeling the need to defend his honour as a scoundrel.

"It's not that, _precisely_. It's just…things are, well…_complicated_. There are larger matters at stake, and—"

Jasper waved a hand, putting Howell's ineffectual spluttering out of the Wizard's misery. "Say no more, my friend. I can see it's still early, in that delicate, eggshell stage of a relationship, when one wrong word might break it all to pieces. Have no fear; your secret is safe with me. All I ask is that you invite me to the wedding." The Earl winked before raising his glass in toast. Howell only wished he was as confident of his ability to make Sophie love him. "To the virgin who turned the eyes of the rogue unicorn."

The unicorn in question snorted in amusement at the analogy. He could just imagine what Sophie would have to say about it. But he raised his glass in kind. "To Sophie, the only mouse to ever slay a dragon." They laughed together and clinked glasses as the old spirit of their conspiratorial camaraderie returned. "Iechyd da."

"Iechyd da!" Howell had missed Jasper's mischievous smile.

He spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in the smoking lounge, absorbing the last year's worth of gossip from one of the best sources in Ingary. The big news currently seemed to be the scandalous marriage of the young Count of Catterack to a commoner. As per Howell's reliably dreary luck, the Viscomte de Montmorency had only returned to the Royal Court of Ingary within the month and had added his hand to the scandal by wooing the common -- and homely, too, it seemed -- lady away from the Count in order to prove some point which existed nowhere but in his deranged Gallish mind. It was rumoured the timid Count was preparing to challenge the Viscomte to a duel over the hand of his ugly duck, but for now, it was just rumour. Howell shook his head at all the news, not remotely sorry to have been out of the loop but for the single fact he had missed his friend's wedding. Ultimately, that may have been for the best, as he learned the bride was a particularly lovely and strong-willed Northern Lady who was not unknown to Howell. A wedding was a terrible place to reveal shared histories of such nature.

By the time the Chamberlain's messenger arrived to escort Howell to see the King, he had drunk just enough to dull his memory of the afternoon's less pleasant events and relax him without making him sleepy (or putting him in the mood for song). Howell parted with the Earl regretfully, promising to see him again sooner than later and to one day introduce him to Sophie. He followed after the page with a smile. Given the events of the morning, surely things could only get better.

…

So long as he didn't chance to meet any more women.

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**Author's Notes: **"Bugeilio'r Gwenyth Gwyn" is an actual Welsh love ballad. If you're curious about it...I'll have to put the link up in my LJ, because is deciding that a web address is improper format or some rubbish. Bah.

I picture the Lord Chamberlain looking a lot like Christopher Lee, with a bit of Rickman flair thrown in.

"Iechyd da" is the traditional Welsh toast meaning "good health."

This is the first chapter covering the events that take place in chapter 7 of HMC. It looks like it will take at least two more to get to the end of those events.


	10. The Princess and the Ponce

**Characters this chapter: **Howell, Rolland, King of Ingary, the Princess Valeria

**Rating:** K

**Warning: **Spoilers for DWJ's _Howl's Moving Castle_

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**Chapter 10: **_The Princess and the Ponce_

Howell had never particularly cared for King Rolland. It was not that he _dis_liked him; the King was a nice enough man. But that was just the trouble. He was a generally kind, somewhat capable, decidedly stubborn man who just happened to be the King of Ingary. There was nothing particularly royal or authoritative about him. In fact, he had an open, friendly, doughy sort of face one would expect to find on the village baker, not the King. It was difficult to summon the proper respect for such a face. Mrs. Pentstemmon had more regality in her little finger than the King possessed in his entire body. Then again, with her pedigree, Mrs. Pentstemmon could have claimed a right to the throne of Ingary herself had she ever been remotely interested in ruling the country. All the same, King Rolland made Prince Charles look like Henry V.

Howell entered the King's military study to find him standing over a large table map of the world – well, this one, at any rate. He was staring nervously at a number of flags and counters in the vicinity of Ingary on the map, and looking rather befuddled. Howell waited to be officially announced before flourishing the most elabourate bow in his repertoire. "What a richly-deserved, yet unexpected honour! Such unmitigated, scintillating delight to be summoned before Your Majesty once again."

The King merely nodded and waved Howell to a seat on one side of an unnecessarily large desk. The Wizard bowed a second time before taking it. "_Thank_ you, Sire." As King Rolland made his way over to the other side of the desk, managing to look uncertain, bored, and nervous all at once, Howell was reminded of the interview Gareth had negotiated for him at the factory that once. The foreman had sat behind a desk rather like this, glowering down at Howell from his intentionally taller chair and telling him all about the carefully-regimented and reliable job he was going to have with them. The foreman had been far more intimidating than King Rolland would ever be, and Howell had still walked out in the middle. With a bit of effort, he kept his natural reflex to sneak off in check this time.

The King took his throne-like seat and placed folded hands on the table, merely looking at Howell for several moments with a rather blank expression on his face, as if he had not yet prepared what he was going to say. _Amateur,_ Howell scoffed, inwardly. He should have decided on what approach he was going take long before the actual meeting, but that was King Rolland all over. Howell was careful to gaze back at the King blandly and indirectly, so as not to turn this interview into a staring contest. He did not think it wise to best the King in such a contest of wills, and Howell would surely do so without even trying; a child could have done it.

As he waited patiently for the King to begin speaking, he felt a gentle tug on his trouser leg. Sitting back in his chair so that he might cast a discreet glance under the desk, Howell spied a miniscule fist, shiny with saliva, clamped to the cuff of his pant leg. The rest of the royal urchin quickly followed into his line of sight as she crawled forward to peep up at Howell from between his ankles. For someone who looked rather like a miniature version of Winston Churchill, she was surprisingly cute. "Wizard Howl," King Rolland finally began, and Howell was forced to look up and pay attention. "As you know, my brother, Prince Justin, has been missing for some weeks now."

_Oh bugger,_ thought Howell. _He's going to ask me to find the Prince._ It was a royal assignation he had been both expecting and dreading for some time. Looking for the Prince of his own volition was one thing. Howell could do so in his own time, in his own way, without fear of failure affecting his reputation. But he had too much on his plate, currently -- turning Sophie young again so that he could properly court her, for example, not to mention saving his own skin from the curse his most unfortunate former acquaintance had sent after him -- to be saddled with an arduous full-time job like locating the Prince.

Howell showed none of these reservations as he replied to the opening King Rolland had intentionally left him to respond. "Yes, Your Majesty. Very distressing indeed."

"The fact of the matter is, Justin and I had a bit of a…a falling out before he left."

"Oh?" Howell pretended to be ignorant. According to the gossip Jasper had just shared with him, this so-called 'falling out' had been one hair short of a royal brawl. Prince Justin had very publicly called King Rolland a jackass for sending Wizard Suliman into the Waste alone to vanquish the Witch. The King's brother had never been the sort to mince words. Old sibling rivalry wounds had been reopened, and a heated exchange had taken place in front of the Court before continuing in private, where it had nearly come to blows.

"It doesn't look good," the King continued, "with his being gone so long."

"Oh dear," Howell said, projecting sympathy and a bit of ignorance. He knew full well what people were saying about the King regarding the Prince's disappearance.

"This isn't Strangia," the King said, looking hurt and distressed. "Ingary's nobility doesn't make a game of poisoning one another."

Howell felt a weight on his shoe and glanced down to see the Princess teething on his once-pristine, shiny shoe buckle. He feared for the silk ribbon tied through it, as her mouth already looked to be smeared with some sort of chocolate. But Howell had learned, through past experience with nephew and niece, that it was best not to take an object away from a teething toddler once they'd set their gums to it. He couldn't have reached her now without alerting the King to what he was doing in any case, so Howell simply wrote his shoes off as ruined and promised himself a new pair in their stead. Thus provided with a valid excuse to shop for more clothes, both he and the Princess were happy with the arrangement.

"Still, some people are accusing me – in private, naturally -- of having done away with my own brother." King Rolland looked both martyred and bemused.

Howell recognised bad acting when he saw it. So the King was trying to play on his sympathies in order to get him to volunteer to look for the Prince. Little did he know, Howell was a man devoid of sympathy – there were certain advantages to having no heart -- and he was very good at playing dumb. He had not worn his hair bleached blond this long without having picked up a trick or two. "But that's terrible! Who would possibly believe such a scurrilous and obviously _false_ accusation?"

"Who indeed?"

Howell watched, transfixed, as the Princess carefully untied the ribbon on his left shoe and attempted to take it with her as she crawled away.

"Unpleasant as these rumours are, the fact of the matter is, I need Justin back for far more crucial reasons right now.

"Oh?" Howell encouraged him to continue, though he already knew everything the King was going to say. At least two of the countries adjacent to Ingary were preparing for war. And King Rolland was an abysmal tactician. There was a reason the Royal Chess Tournaments had been cancelled after he'd ascended the throne.

Howell found what was going on beneath the desk to be far more interesting than listening to the King explain dull and ultimately meaningless information he already knew. Valeria had given up on his ribbon with a frustrated grunt when it refused to cooperate and go with her. She sat now on her bulging, diapered little bum, looking peevishly up at Howell as if it were all his fault. Her baby lip protruded in a pout, and the Princess looked as though she might be considering tears. She was really quite beguiling. As King Rolland droned on and on about political matters, his eyes roaming distractedly around the room, Howell offered a playful, innocent smile to the sullen urchin under the desk. After a few moments of deliberation, the Princess Valeria sucked her lip back in and smiled back, an endearing, toothless gesture which somehow made the smudge of chocolate on her face grow even larger.

"If only Wizard Ben had not marched off into the Waste." This blatantly rewritten history of the King's predicament shocked Howell enough to get his attention, but he kept his expression carefully neutral as he watched the King for some tell-tale sign of the whopping lie he'd just told. It was a good thing, too, because King Rolland was discreetly watching Howell for any signs of disbelief. As if Sullivan would have gone off into the Waste alone of his own accord! But Howell said not a word, did not make even so much as an eyebrow quirk of protest.

"And now we have lost him." The King looked unconvincingly tragic as he continued. "And are left without a Royal Magician in these hard and dangerous times." Howell could see exactly where this talk was headed. He had to say something and distract the King before he reached the inevitable verbal destination.

"If I may say so, Sire," Howell interrupted, as the King had kindly left him space to do so. "I don't believe Wizard Suliman to be dead."

"No?" The King turned to him in surprise. "What makes you say that?" He leaned forward on the desktop, looking eagerly at the Wizard for an explanation. Howell realised he had perhaps not chosen the best topic for distraction. He thought quickly to come up with an explanation which would take the pressure and focus off of himself.

"You see, Your Majesty, when a powerful wizard dies, all of the other wizards in the vicinity can sense it."

The King did not look convinced. "Sense it? I don't follow."

"To be honest, it's difficult to explain to someone who doesn't work magic…" Howell could see from King Rolland's expression that he was not going to settle for this explanation, or lack thereof. So he improvised, borrowing from a bit of popular mythology from his own world in order to amuse himself. "Well you see, there's a sort of...invisible force in the universe which wraps and surrounds all living things." The King looked as though he was concentrating very hard in order to understand. "Powerful wizards are strong in this...Force. So when a wizard dies, it's as if…a million voices suddenly cry out in terror, and then, suddenly, silence." Howell thought his Alec Guinness impression first rate, and congratulated himself on it.

"I see," said the King, eyeing him as if he thought the Wizard was a bit mad. The important part, however, was that King Rolland had accepted his laughable explanation. Then the King looked thoughtful for a moment, which was never a good sign. "Let me ask you this, then," he began, and Howell had a sinking feeling about what he was going to say next. "If you powerful wizards can...sense one another within this…Force, is there a way you might be able to track Suliman using that…wizard's sense?"

Howell just seemed to keep digging himself in deeper and deeper. Holding off panic, he very politely explained to the King that it did not work that way, and he was _terribly_ sorry, because he wanted _very_ much to help, but he could not _possibly_ do that. The King's expression darkened, and his thick eyebrows drew down in thought. "Well then," he said at last. "Knowing that Suliman is still alive doesn't do me a bit of good." Howell shrugged and looked regretful, feeling a touch nervous at having made the King unhappy.

King Rolland quickly returned to the topic of his brother. As he spoke, he continued to drop hints that were subtle as an elephant's footsteps that he expected Howell to volunteer for the task of finding him. Howell was carefully oblivious. But in spite of the imminent danger of his being royally appointed the task whether he wanted it or not, he quickly grew bored of the game they were playing. Any other monarch would surely have ended it hours ago. Fortunately, the King was not the only source of entertainment in the room.

Howell peeped discreetly under the desk again to see what his little friend was up to. The Princess had settled herself in an odd shape which looked more like a heap of laundry than a baby and was cheerfully and determinedly attempting to stick her entire fist into her mouth. Howell had to try very hard not to chuckle at this intrepid endeavor. When she saw he was looking at her, Valeria favoured him with another gummy, drooling smile. Howell wiggled his fingers at her under the desk in greeting. The Princess looked as though she wanted to wave back, but it seemed she was having some difficulty dislodging her fist in order to do so.

"...so many wizards in this country." The King continued to drone on. He seemed to have bored even himself, for he rose from the desk and began pacing the room, fiddling with various royal knickknacks along the way. "But this is a very delicate matter, and requires the touch of someone both trustworthy and expert."

The Princess finally did manage to free her fist, but she'd grown so upset by then, her face was bunching up like an unhappy raisin, preparing for a good cry. Fortunately, Howell knew just what to do. He had learnt a thing or two during all of the unjustly unpaid hours he had spent babysitting instead of writing his thesis while Megan had been working part time. Howell quietly snapped his fingers to get the unhappy urchin's attention before pulling a funny face. In the middle of taking a breath to let loose a good wail, Valeria paused and looked up at Howell uncertainly. King Rolland's back was turned, and he was moving flags around on the map distractedly, as he spoke. Howell winked down at his tiny captive audience before cheerfully sticking his tongue out at her. The Princess smiled, her chocolate-smudged, chubby cheeks dimpling angelically.

"I've thought long and hard," the King was saying. "In the end, there were only two options."

Howell smiled back. Then he put his hands on either side of his head, like antlers, and waggled them at her. This seemed to erase all memory of the unpleasant fist incident. Dimpling from ear to ear, the Princess Valeria grabbed hold of Howell's trouser leg and pulled herself into a slightly wobbly but upright position.

"...thought to myself, 'Which one would be best to help with such a sensitive business?'" The King was rearranging a pen and ink set on an antique writing desk in the corner of the room, looking somewhat perplexed, as he continued.

Meanwhile, Howell had covered his face with his hands and was entertaining the Princess with a game of peek-a-boo. She was propped up against his knee now, watching the show, rapt. When Howell quickly took his hands away and revealed crossed eyes before sticking his tongue out again, Valeria giggled. Unfortunately, the King heard and turned round. Howell had to hurriedly lean his elbow on the desk, hiding the Princess behind one long sleeve, and do his best to look as though he had been paying close attention the entire time.

"Valeria," the King called, looking around the room, rather lost. "Where have you got to, poppet?" The Princess crept forward, using Howell's thigh for support, and poked her head out from under the desk and Howell's dangling grey and scarlet sleeve, which he hurriedly and innocently swept out of the way.

"Waa waa daaah!" she declared happily in that foreign language known only to very young children.

"Oh no! You **did** get into the ink again," the King said, looking at her in dismay. Curious, Howell looked down to see what he meant and noticed what it had taken a father's eye to discern: the toddler's left hand was black with ink, along with the lower half of her dress. Howell began to think the smudges around her mouth might not be chocolate after all. "Oh, bother!" The King swore, rushing over. "Mummy will have our head for this. Two weeks in a row!" He picked his daughter up and paced the office, muttering to himself in a nervous, distracted fashion.

"Your Majesty," Howell suggested kindly. "Perhaps this is not the best time to discuss these matters?"

"Ohhh, must call Nurse--" the King was still busy talking to himself. "No--can't call Nurse, she'll tell Amelia."

Howell stood and bowed, beginning to edge toward the door. "In that case, Sire, I'll just await further instructions."

"Yes, thank you," King Rolland said, eyes roving restlessly around the room, as if searching for some means of escape. "We shall call for you again soon. Yes. Er..."

"_Thank_ you, Your Majesty." Howell bowed himself to the nearest door. "And if there is anything I might do to help you in these matters, please do not hesitate to ask." He felt it was safe to offer now that the King was no longer paying attention. "I remain Your Majesty's faithful and devoted servant."

King Rolland didn't even look up as Howell left, busily attempting to wash the ink off his daughter's face with only a glass of water and a handkerchief. One of the royal personages, however, did take note of Howell's departure. "Dye!" Princess Valeria waved cheerfully at him over the distressed royal parent's shoulder. Howell smiled, utterly charmed, and waved back before the King's Guard shut the door behind him.

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**Author's Note:** DWJ never did give the King of Ingary a name. So I did.


	11. Calcifer prevents Howell from sleeping

**Characters this chapter: **Howell, Sophie, Michael, Calcifer, Skull

**Rating: **K+

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**A Woman True and Fair **

**Chapter 11:** _In which Calcifer prevents Howl from getting any sleep_

Howell was so eager to get home that he walked right to the nearest closet, discreetly shut himself inside, and threw down a complex transport spell that deposited him right on his front doorstep. When he walked in, he made a beeline for Sophie, half tempted to throw himself at her and demand a hug of consolation. Howell certainly felt he deserved one after the day he'd had. Only Sophie could truly make things better. Sophie, or perhaps a large amount of chocolate.

When he drew near, Howell spied the reason Michael and Sophie had been so quiet when he'd come in. They were admiring a gorgeous chocolate cherry cake with whipped cream topping. Looking down at the box resting in Sophie's lap, Howell went weak in the knees. He'd got his wish; both of them. Chocolate was Howell's second Great Weakness. Sophie being at the top of the list of his first, it was unfortunate she was still old. The way he was feeling currently, Howell would gladly have swept both cake and woman into his arms and disappeared upstairs for the rest of the evening.

As Michael was leaning on the back of Sophie's chair, Howell stepped round in front of her to bend down for a better look. Catching a delectable whiff -- of the cake, not Sophie, who bore the unfortunate scent of floor wash and the aged -- Howell commented on it with enthusiasm. Marvelous cake was definitely his favourite kind; marvelous cake in Sophie's lap, even better. Howell asked her where she'd got it. If not for the box in which the cake was resting, he might have dared hope she'd made it herself. What a glorious dream! If Howell ever found out Sophie was capable of creating such confections, he would surely have to marry her on the spot, curse or no, whether she liked it or not.

Michael confessed to having bought the cake from the local baker's in Market Chipping, spoiling Howell's little fantasy, but not his appetite. Those little curls of chocolate were calling to him, and Howell's stomach prudently reminded him he had forgotten to eat all day (again). His eye roved the workbench in search of dinner as he chatted amiably to his companions. A respectable-looking meat pie drew him thither, and Howell made a joke as he examined it amid Sophie's abandoned cooking efforts. He really did not think the workbench the best place to prepare food, but he and Sophie had had that argument already (apparently, he had lost). There really were onions everywhere; one had even got into the poor skull's eye socket. As Howell tapped it out into the palm of his hand, he got the notion a bit of Hamlet might be amusing. Holding up the skull appropriately, he teased Sophie by addressing it regarding the mess spilled across the workbench.

Alarmingly, Yorick seemed to want to respond. Howell could not remember _that_ bit being in the play. It _would_ be just his luck that the poor chap to whom the skull had once belonged had not quite quit this world. Howell promptly set the skull back on the table, having no desire to add exorcism to his list of adventures of the day. If the skull wanted to speak, it was welcome to do so. To someone else.

Something of Howell's fatigue must have shown on his face, because Michael asked him what was wrong. His thoughts returned to the interview he had recently left and the fact the tiny Princess had only just rescued him from being royally appointed the task of locating Prince Justin. But it was merely a delay she had given him, not a reprieve. Howell wished he had the nerve to be less capable now and then. If not for his dreadful pride in his work, he would not be in this predicament. Oh why had he been blessed with this singular extraordinary gift? Why couldn't he have just been born talentless and incompetent, like all the other sorcerers in Ingary?

Perhaps, if the King were persuaded not to think so highly of him, he would change his mind about wanting Howell's help. What he needed was someone who could give a convincing performance on his behalf and advise the King against employing his services. He voiced these thoughts, and Michael – as he often did – misunderstood, thinking perhaps something had gone awry with the spell he had delivered earlier in the week. Feeling irritable, Howell toyed with the onion ring he'd recently extracted from the skull as he explained the situation more clearly, warning Calcifer of their danger. But Calcifer gave no reply.

Howell suddenly realised the house had been surprisingly devoid of the fire demon's crackled smart remarks ever since he'd returned home. With furrowed brow, he wandered over to the hearth and got down on his knees to peer into the grate. Calcifer was either asleep or pointedly ignoring him. After the row they'd had a few nights ago, Howell thought it better to have Michael try to rouse him. Beginning to feel on edge, he demanded that his apprentice do so, flapping his hands impatiently. But Michael had no better luck.

Throwing logs on top of the ash had no effect other than making the nonexistent fire smoke. Not a single curly green flame appeared. At this point, Howell's short supply of patience ran out, and he shouted for his friend to come out. When still there was no response, he turned to Michael, both perplexed and seriously disturbed. Having no choice left, Howell grabbed the poker from beside the hearth and gently prodded beneath the logs for the vicinity of his heart. He apologised for jabbing the fire demon with cold iron before commanding him to wake up. But something was terribly wrong.

A large puff of smoke wafted lazily up the chimney, as if the fire were a candle flame that had just been blown out. Calcifer finally did speak, but he sounded not at all himself as he mumbled at Howell to leave him alone. At least he knew the fire demon was still alive down there. But this was a first. What could have happened to make Calcifer so sluggish? Howell would have known if the Witch had found them and done something. So what was it? He asked Michael for any clues.

When it was Sophie who answered instead of Michael, Howell had a sinking feeling. She did have a special touch when it came to disaster. He turned around slowly, still kneeling, and demanded to know what sort of plague she had brought on his house this time. Sophie looked both nervous and offended at the question.

"Well, after you and Michael left this morning, there was a knock at the door," she explained, defensively.

So Michael had left Sophie to her own devices? No wonder things had gone to hell. Howell would have to have a little talk with Michael about leaving the castle while he was away. Clearly, their cleaning lady required a chaperone other than Calcifer.

"I answered it, in case it was a customer or either of you had forgotten something."

Howell had not known Sophie had been helping customers herself. Something else he would have to discuss with Michael.

She looked genuinely frightened, as she continued. "But it was that scarecrow, come to horrible life! It pawed at me with its stick arm, trying to get in! So I asked Calcifer to take the castle faster in order to lose it. We finally did, but by then Calcifer was tired. That's all!"

This story concerned Howell. It sounded stark raving mad. He had known from the start that Sophie's age was no glamour; it was quite genuine. And if it was real enough to affect her joints, it stood to reason that it was real enough to affect her mind. From the way Sophie was constantly muttering to inanimate objects, Howell had always thought she was a _bit_ mad. And that was tolerable, perhaps even charming. But this was the first full-blown delusion she had admitted to, and it worried Howell quite a lot.

What he couldn't make out was how Sophie's delusion had sucked Calcifer dry. She must have bullied him again, somehow. This made Howell very angry. Bullying Calcifer into cooking breakfast or dinner was one thing. But bullying him into a stupour over an imagined danger was unacceptable. Howell knew well how Sophie's bossiness could get out of hand, but he had not thought her quite _this_ ruthless. She protested that she had not bullied Calcifer, that the fire demon had exhausted himself of his own volition. Howell found that difficult to believe. Calcifer's selfish survival instinct was stronger even than his own. But mostly Howell argued with her explanation because he was worried it might have actually happened that way.

Unfortunately, the fallen star bore the burden of Howell's soft heart, which was currently frighteningly well-disposed toward Sophie. Taking that into consideration, it was quite possible Calcifer might have been unable to say no to a request Sophie had made of him, even had she demanded he jump over the moon. Howell felt somewhat responsible for leaving his friend in this vulnerable state, which made him feel guilty, which in turn made him even more irritable. Because Sophie was there, he took it out on her, snapping at her that they were resigned to a cold supper thanks to her bullying.

That was when Michael cut in to remind them that there was still the cake to enjoy, fire or no. That ended the argument with an audible rumble of Howell's stomach. Sophie pretended not to hear but set about preparing supper right away, taking her frustrations with him out on the onions through overzealous use of the paring knife. Howell went to the cupboard and shoved an apple in his mouth to prevent him saying anything else that might upset her. With little preparation to do, the meal was soon ready. Howell felt quite a bit better with some food in him, but he was still worried about Calcifer. He kept looking over at the hearth, willing those ominously unburned logs to catch fire.

They ate in silence, Howell feeling anxious about Calcifer, Sophie sulking because he had blamed her for the fire demon's state, and Michael desperately trying to think of a way to put things right again between them. Finally, when they had got to the cake and everyone felt better for it, he asked how his master's audience with the King had gone. Howell took advantage of being in the spotlight once more to mourn his impending doom of royal appointment. Naturally, Sophie had to interrupt and steal his thunder, insulting him, to boot. Howell insulted her right back, and then explained why being forced to find Prince Justin would be a Very Bad Thing™, considering the curse of one particularly vindictive lady which was searching for him at this very moment.

Unfortunately for Howell, Sophie was very good at reading between the lines, ferreting out what he had carefully omitted from the story. "You mean you jilted the Witch of the Waste?" Howell could not tell if she was awed by his romantic spirit in pursuing such a formidable woman or by his unsurpassed stupidity in having done so. Because he wanted to, he chose to believe the first. It upset him, however, that Sophie now knew of this unpleasant little tidbit from Howell's past. It was something he would have preferred to remain obscure.

Howell felt both depressed and defensive about this forced revelation. Another piece of cake was called for. "That is not the way to put it," he told her, trying to backtrack over his indirect confession and downplay it as much as possible. "I admit I thought I was fond of her for a time." Sophie did not need to know that he and Violet were so much alike, Howell had been almost certain – for a full two weeks – that she was "the one." But after those two blissful weeks of heartless togetherness, she had started to drop odd and disturbing hints into casual conversation, like musing on what Howell's brilliant head might be able to do on a more honourable body, and making suspicious remarks about how he might be the perfect man if only a few small alchemical changes could be made. After he had actually caught her taking measurements of his cranium one night when she thought him asleep, Howell's feelings had quickly cooled.

Still, he felt the need to defend his past affections, claiming for his excuse Violet's pitiable state, feared and alone in the desert as she was. He could not quite resist a parting jab at Sophie along the way. She reacted to his teasing predictably, and Howell met her furious glare with bright, eager eyes, only to have Michael interrupt and derail the glorious row Howell had been looking forward to having with Sophie all day, drat him.

But he stopped to consider Michael's question about moving the castle; it certainly wasn't a bad idea. Though how would Sophie feel about being taken away from Market Chipping, being as it was her home? Howell was selfish and cowardly, but he was not cruel. And he had no wish to make Sophie even more unhappy than she generally was to begin with. Apart from that, how would he ever get more of this glorious cake if they were no longer within walking distance of Cesari's? One thing was certain: it was no use planning anything until he was assured Calcifer would be all right.

Proving Howell's suspicions correct, Sophie spoke up, feebly reaching for an excuse to get him to leave the castle where it was. When she mentioned Lettie, Howell realised he had not thought of her sister once all day. Even thoughts of revenge had faded to the status of "too much trouble" in his mind. Thinking it should help in his future efforts to pursue Sophie if she knew she would not have to compete with her sister in his affections, Howell told her he didn't expect his attachment to Lettie to last long enough to prevent a move. But this did not seem to put Sophie's mind at ease; clearly she did not want the castle moved. By the way Michael was behaving, he was none to keen on the idea either, even though it had been his suggestion. Porthaven was Michael's home, Howell supposed, even if it had not been kind to him after his parents had died.

Given that two of the five people who mattered most to Howell – excluding himself, who always came first -- were not keen on the idea of moving the castle, he thought hard for an alternate solution. If only there were some other way to avoid the King. The castle's current setup had worked to avoid Violet's curse thus far, and Howell saw no reason to change something which had proven effective. His thoughts returned to his earlier idea of giving the King a negative reference. Now if only he could just find someone who despised him enough, but could still be convinced to do him a favour…

Howell's eyes roamed thoughtfully over the surface of the workbench, his uneaten forkful of cake, and the disappointed look on Sophie's face. As his eyes lit upon her, she scowled, no doubt from force of habit, and he suddenly had it. Yes, it was perfect! Howell gestured excitedly at her with his fork, as he announced his brilliant idea for _her_ to blacken his name to the King. In spite of the fact this would give Sophie ample opportunity to express her displeasure with him, she did not look at all happy with his plan. Even the expression she was currently wearing proved Sophie was perfect for the job. Howell beamed at her across the table, thrilled with his own cleverness, pleased as punch that Sophie's hatred of him could be put to his own use, and tickled by the irony of it all. The woman he loved, going out into the world to denounce him for his faults and proclaim her hatred for him in order that he might be _saved_. His smile all but shouted his adoration of her.

Howell bolstered her lack of resolve by assuring her it would be an easy task for an experienced and skilled harridan like herself to bully the dumpling-faced King of Ingary. Sophie merely stared at him in silent protest. When a crimson flush slowly crept across her wrinkled cheeks, Howell's smile grew three shades brighter. He hadn't even known old ladies _could_ blush, though he supposed he had never actively flirted with one before now. Howell felt incredibly gratified at this reaction from her, even hopeful. A whisper of lone birdsong echoed in the empty cavern of his chest. _Only you, Sophie_, he thought, _could make me this happy by utterly despising me. _

For the rest of the evening, Howell dillied and dallied about downstairs, willing Calcifer to be all right and basking in Sophie's silent and distant hatred of him. If only it had been a salon full of Sophies he'd met with this afternoon instead of those starved hyenas in hoop skirts. He waited until she and Michael were in bed before sitting down in front of the hearth and going into trance. Howell would not have been able to, had Sophie still been awake. Generally, he had too much nervous energy to be much good at meditation, and so he only did it when it was absolutely necessary.

It was now. Bringing his attention inward, Howell focused past the endless spin cycle of his thoughts and current worries and began to feed Calcifer. First, he poured out all of that nervous excess of energy that was flitting around, just looking for mischief to latch onto. When that was gone, he dipped into the reservoir of energy he kept on hand for emergency. If the Witch ever caught up to them, Howell did not want to be caught unawares with no spare energy on hand to defend himself. Big as his reserve was, Calcifer's need emptied it far too quickly. And still there were no flames on the logs, and no more light emerged from beneath the ashes.

Howell reached deeper within himself for more; he couldn't let his friend go out. Tapping the flow of energy around him, he concentrated on replenishing his personal supply of power as he spun out as much as possible to Calcifer. It was a delicate and complex balance to maintain. In spite of his best efforts, Howell soon became light-headed and drowsy. But he was determined to bring Calcifer back, and did not stop. Before long, he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. Lying down in the soft ashes, he fell asleep.

Down a dark well of unconsciousness, Howell thought he heard his father calling to him.

"Hywel."

Which was interesting, as his father had been dead for nearly ten years. Howell wondered, vaguely -- as you do in dreams -- if he should be concerned about this.

"Hywel, _deffro_."

Howell tried to tell his father he was not ready to wake up yet. But he was too exhausted to get the words out. His mouth would obey him no more than his limbs, which lay useless and rubbery against the stone floor.

"_Deffro_, Hywel."

And he was still not certain it was a good thing to be hearing the voice of a dead man, much less conversing with it.

"Howell, wake up!"

Howell struggled to get his eyelids open. There seemed to be a boulder resting on each one. "_Tad?_" He managed to pry his eyes open by sheer force of will, and looked around him, blearily, half expecting to see his father's bushy moustache looming over him as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. But all he saw was a stack of gently smoking logs and the blue glow of a banked fire beneath. Then he remembered where he was. "Calcifer?" he asked softly, uncertain if the voice had been real or just in his dream.

"Who else would it be?" came the soft hiss from the fire.

"Don't speak," Howell warned. "You need to save your strength."

A snorting pop preceded the fire demon's hoarsely sizzled answer. "So says the nincompoop who tapped into his own life force to bring me round. I was afraid you'd never wake up. What'd you want to go and do a stupid thing like that for?"

Howell smiled. "I was worried about you, too, old blueface."

The fire demon changed the topic quite suddenly. "Howell, we've got to get that curse off Sophie."

"Who are you telling?" Howell asked, peevishly. "I've been trying to get together with you to do just that for **three weeks **now."

"Could have fooled me," the fire demon grumbled, sullen. Howell generously chose to ignore this comment, because his friend was so ill, and he had no desire to quarrel with him again. It was just as well, because Calcifer had more to say. His weak voice grew solemn and even quieter. "We nearly lost her this morning."

Howell blinked and sat up. "Wot? How do you mean?" Had Sophie finally decided to return to her family, even though she was still under the curse? Or did she merely hate him so much that she had attempted to flee the castle in his absence? Both thoughts made Howell feel as though he'd swallowed an uncomfortably large rock.

"Whatever it was at the door," the fire demon sizzled whisperingly, "it frightened her nearly to death. I thought she was having a heart attack."

Howell was chilled to the bone. In all that had happened, he had never before considered the possibility that Sophie might die of old age. What if she had a bad heart? He would never forgive Violet if something happened to Sophie.

Calcifer continued. "There was nothing I could do, Howell. She screamed for me to make the castle go faster, so I did. But that was _all I could do_." The hissing crackle was filled with anguish. Howl had never heard Calcifer so upset about another human being. He knew now they were well and truly lost to Sophie.

"And it helped?" Howell asked.

"Eventually. After I had the castle going nearly 200 kph for an hour." Howell no longer wondered how his friend had drained all of his energy helping Sophie. "I'm tired, Howell."

"I'm sorry." It was instinctive to reach out and comfort. Luckily for Howell, the logs on which his hand came to rest were still quite cool. "Thank you, Calcifer." He did not want to think how it would have felt to be trapped in the hearth with Sophie so ill. The fire demon was no doubt as upset at how helpless it had made him feel as he was about what had happened.

"As soon as I'm better…" Calcifer began.

"If we work together…" There was no doubt they would succeed. It was decided, then. Howell just wondered how long it would be before his friend was up to full strength again. Part of him wanted to insist that the fire demon not push himself, that he take his time recovering fully. The rest of him wanted to try again as soon as possible. He couldn't lose Sophie. He just couldn't.

"There's something else," Calcifer sighed, exhausted. "About when you tried to take the curse off by yourself."

Howell bit back his angry demand to know why his friend had been watching instead of helping then. "Yes?"

"It should have worked."

The fire demon must have been feeling better if he was up to his old jokes. Howell rolled his eyes. "Thank you for that _help_ful bit of information."

"Listen, cabbage-head." The fire snapped. "I saw it start to come off, but then…it looked almost as if she pulled it back on."

"But," asked Howell, puzzled, "why would she do that?"

"I don't know. That's _your_ job to find out."

Howell spoke aloud the conclusion to which they had both come. "We'll never get the curse off if she doesn't want it off."

"Precisely."

"I suppose I am due another visit to her sister…" Howell mused. It would surely be easier to ask Lettie than Sophie herself why it was she might want to remain an old woman.

"Sister?" Calcifer asked, sounding as though he was fading fast.

"I promise to tell you all about it later. For now, rest."

"Not until you go upstairs to bed."

Howell was about to argue when he realised there was no point. They were both exhausted by now. And, worried as he was, Howell knew he would fall asleep, regardless, if he were in his own bed. "All right. I'm going. Rest well, Calcifer."

But Calcifer was already asleep. Howell could hear his sizzling snore as he climbed unsteadily to his feet and made for the stairs. Passing Sophie's alcove, he stopped to peer in at the dear, sleeping figure. Fortunately, she looked to have slept soundly through their entire conversation. _Oh Sophie,_ Howell thought. _You stubborn old mule. Don't you dare leave me._ Especially not before he got that fight he'd been pining for all day. Turning away, Howell just managed to pull himself up the stairs and fall into bed before he lost consciousness a second time.

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**Author's Notes:** Yes, I gave the Witch of the Wastea name.

The dialogue between Howell and Sophie regarding his previous relationship with the Witch of the Waste is straight from _HMC_. All hail DWJ!

This concludes my coverage of the events which occur in chapter 7 of _HMC_.

**Translations from the Welsh:**

_Deffro_ - The imperative form of the verb "to wake"

_Tad_ - "Dad"


	12. In which Howell suffers bad frights

**Characters this chapter:** Howell, Sophie, Michael, Calcifer, Scarecrow

**Rating:** T

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**Chapter 12:** _In which Howell suffers bad frights from several different directions _

Howell was awakened late the following morning by the sounds of Sophie's industrious banging around downstairs, chatting with Michael as she prepared breakfast. Feeling vaguely hung-over from the energy drain the night before, Howell sat up in bed and realised he had been too tired to take his shoes off before he'd fallen asleep. He was also covered from head to toe in ash from having fainted in the hearth. Grabbing his favourite pair of boots, yesterday's shoes bearing the unmistakable mark of the Princess Valeria's royal approval, Howell transported himself straight to the bathroom. He did not want Sophie to see him looking less than perfect, even if it was just to run down the stairs and disappear into his sanctuary.

His morning toilette took Howell twice as long as usual, one, because he and his newly-mended suit were filthy, and two, because he refused to tax Calcifer by asking for hot water. This meant that he had to both pump and heat his own water, a frightfully tedious business, but one in which he had no choice if he wanted his friend to recover properly so they could remove Sophie's curse once and for all. Having to retrieve his own water also necessitated a bath, and Howell inevitably kept drifting back to sleep in the comfortably steamy bathwater. Feeding Calcifer last night had thoroughly drained him. If the Witch caught up to them today, they would be in trouble.

As Howell applied his cosmetics, still feeling groggy, he thought again about what the fire demon had told him last night. Even though he could hear for himself through the door that Sophie was quite well now, Howell felt paranoid that she might keel over at any moment. There was simply no time to waste removing the curse. In his hurry to go out and see for himself that both Calcifer and Sophie were all right this morning, Howell rushed and took less care with his appearance than normal.

When he felt presentable enough, he opened the door and proceeded into the front room, only to be pointedly ignored by Sophie. Perhaps she was still miffed at him for chiding her about having exhausted Calcifer last night. Howell sighed long-sufferingly, but decided this was as good a sign as any that Sophie was just fine. He made his way over to the fireplace to check on his friend instead, kneeling down for a closer look, heedless of getting his trousers and sleeves all sooty again. Even though the fire demon was not yet up to his full power, he looked good as new, and there was no doubt he would mend. Howell expressed his relief at this aloud, only to be informed by Calcifer that he had merely been tired. Well, that was one way of understating it.

The fire demon had not mentioned the drag on the castle when they had spoken last night. It worried Howell to hear of it, as he was not sure what might have been responsible. Perhaps the castle's mobility spell just needed a bit of tweaking, but he couldn't worry about that just now; he had to go speak to Lettie about Sophie. Instead, he told Calcifer to stand up for himself the next time she asked him to jump over the moon. Of course, considering his heart was still involved, making Calcifer vulnerable to Sophie's bullying, it was doubtful things would play out any differently a second time, but it made Howell feel better to pretend.

Then he turned to Michael and told him to start on that enlargement spell he had assigned him two days ago. That at least should ensure that Michael would be home with Sophie all day in case anything else happened. Howell gave instructions for what to tell the next royal messenger who came for him, estimating that one would arrive soon – King Rolland was not _that _incompetent – before informing them where he would be in case they needed to reach him. From force of habit, he grabbed the guitar on his way to the door, trying hard to ignore the fact Sophie had not so much as glanced at him once since he'd emerged from the bathroom.

Howell did not have time to get depressed about this, because hardly had he got the door open when a roughly humanoid object reeking of mildew and rotting vegetables slammed into him hard enough to knock the wind out of him. For a moment, he was afraid the force of the blow had damaged the guitar, as it gave a horrible discordant twang. As Howell struggled not to be shoved inside by the bewitched object determined to enter his home uninvited, he heard Sophie's screech of fear from behind him. Already angry at having been attacked on the way out of his own house, Howell's anger increased three-fold knowing that this thing had frightened Sophie. Twice, he realized, as he looked down and took in the shape of the thing. Apparently, Sophie had not been having delusions after all. Howell might have felt relief at this under different circumstances. Right now, it was taking all of his strength just to hold his ground against the thing. And, tall and thin though he was, Howell was by no means weak, a fact many a flanker had learnt the hard way trying to wrest the ball from him. This was no mere scarecrow; this was a sorcerer's golem. And from the force of magic pressing in upon him, it was no weak hedge-wizard's construct, either. On any other day, Howell could have easily used his magic to send it flying. Naturally, it _would _attack on the morning he was feeling weak as a kitten.

Just as he was about to lose his temper all together at the entire bothersome situation and give the scarecrow a good thumping for its audacity, Howell lost some ground, and Calcifer and Michael caught sight of his opponent for the first time. "There really _is _a scarecrow!"

Their declaration of the obvious only inflamed his temper further, provoking Howell's biting sarcasm. "Oh, is there?" he ground out between clenched teeth as he continued to grapple with the physical force and strong magic relentlessly shoving at him. "Do tell!" The annoyance gave Howell the extra oomph he needed to get the upper hand over his opponent. Bracing one foot against the door frame, he used the solidity of the castle and Calcifer behind him to push the scarecrow off, throwing all of his weight, and a good measure of the magic he had left, into it. The scarecrow s_hould _have been thrown halfway to Market Chipping, but instead, it fell lightly into the heather only a few meters away. That was frighteningly strong magic. Whoever had made it was a great deal more powerful than Howell liked in an enemy. And the magic felt somehow familiar to him…

Howell did not have time to ponder this any further, however, for the scarecrow immediately gathered itself for another round. Quickly shrugging off Ben's guitar so that he could move more freely, Howell stepped outside to keep as much distance between it and Sophie as possible. He held out one palm, creating a magical barrier that prevented it from coming any closer, showing it "thus far and no farther" before telling it so in a most amicable tone. Having no desire to destroy it outright without knowing for certain who had sent it, Howell asked it to go home. But the scarecrow clearly had other ideas. As he walked forward, maintaining the barrier between them, it was forced to move backward with every step he took, but the scarecrow made no move whatever to leave. In fact, it looked to be just waiting for an opportunity to come at him once more. How vexing. Howell asked it for confirmation that it was intent upon staying, and tried not to shiver as the intelligence behind the construct shook its rotting turnip of a head 'no.' This was surely an adventure for All Hallow's Eve, not high summer.

Howell could almost feel his attentive audience watching from inside the castle. It would be a shame not to put on a show for them, so he did. Telling the scarecrow firmly, and somewhat jokingly, that he was not going to allow it to frighten Sophie (nor him) any longer, Howell took the weight of its foreign magic in hand and, with an effort, lifted it up high in order to better manipulate it. The scarecrow struggled, but even the strong magic which compelled it was not enough to defy the word of power Howell used to command its departure. Words of power being somewhat a specialty of Howell's, it worked very effectively, carrying the scarecrow away with satisfying speed. In a matter of seconds, it had disappeared from sight all together.

Never before had Howell been forced to use a word of power for something so insignificant. He might have been embarrassed if he hadn't been so exhausted to begin with. Truly, it was the worst possible day for an assault like this to have happened. He wondered once more, irritably, who could have sent it. Coming down from an adrenaline high, Howell was greatly displeased to discover the recent struggle had caused him to break a sweat, as well. Walking back to the castle door, Howell dabbed at the sweat on his face before it could provoke his naturally oily skin into an unattractive shine.

Focused on himself as he tried to catch his breath and return to his usual calm elegant self, Howell apologized to Sophie for having disbelieved her story. Having met the object of her fear up close and personally, he did not remotely blame her for having been frightened of it. In fact, he wondered how she had managed to prevent it from entering the castle the first time. Certainly, it was obvious now what had been causing the drag Calcifer had complained of yesterday.

Feeling a bit better, Howell teased Sophie about the scarecrow's origins having something to do with her previous employment. But instead of strenuously objecting to the suggestion or snapping back at him, as he'd suspected, she merely wheezed out a tiny, breathless laugh. If this was not sign enough that something was very wrong, Howell got more proof than he needed when he reached the doorway and saw Sophie looking vague and fragile, weakly clutching her chest, her cheeks sunken and sallow, as if she might faint at any moment. This frightened and alarmed him far worse than the scarecrow ever could have done.

In a moment, Howell was back inside the castle, having cleared the three foot doorstep and the prone guitar in a single leap. He rushed to her side, taking Sophie gently by the elbow as he wrapped one arm around her waist to steady her. Trying to calm her as he led her over to her chair, Howell heard the blind panic in his voice as if he were somehow disconnected from it. While part of him was frightened to death he might be losing her, the rest of him had stilled, preparing to solve the problem once and for all. He turned determined green eyes to the fire demon leaning out of the grate, making sure his friend was ready. This was it. Sophie's life was at stake; Howell was through playing games.

The flames of Calcifer's face bent forward in a nod as he lent Howell his strength through their link. Putting his other arm around Sophie to get a better grip on the spell enveloping her, Howell abruptly yanked at the curse with all of the magical force he and Calcifer possessed. The time for a delicate approach, attempting to carefully unravel the intricate layer of spells was over. Now it was time for the application of sheer brute force.

Howell felt the curse tear away with an almost audible ripping, pulling away from Sophie's body like a malignant parasite screaming in protest. For just a moment as the spell came away, he could see his beautiful, wan little mouse through the top layer of glamour. But just as he was poised to throw the residual energy to Calcifer, Howell paused, more than tempted to warm Sophie's pale, cold lips with his own. It suddenly occurred to him that he was holding her in his arms for the very first time. Howell could hardly resist. But wouldn't that be taking advantage of her, given their current circumstances?

In that split second of indecision, the glamour slipped his grasp and pasted itself back onto Sophie's body where it rested in his arms. Howell was devastated. With Sophie still clutched to him, he turned to Calcifer for an explanation, his chest aching. The fire demon merely waved his stubby blue arm-flames in a "told you so" gesture. Howell shrugged, helpless. He could not understand it.

Reluctantly, Howell let go of Sophie in order to give Michael firm instructions as to her care and keeping for the remainder of the day. He hardly wanted to leave anymore, but it was now more important to him than ever that he find out why Sophie would do this. At least the innermost layer of the curse was gone now. She still appeared to the five senses as a 90-year-old crone, but Sophie possessed the heart and circulatory system of a young woman once more. Howell could leave the castle without fear of her suffering a stroke while he was gone. He only hoped Lettie could tell him why Sophie would do something so daft as to pull a curse back on herself which he had so considerately just removed.

It took Howell forever to get to the door a second time, as he kept thinking of "just one more thing" to tell Michael, and turning back to see that Sophie was all right, or touch her gently on the shoulder as he gave Michael further instructions. She was behaving as if she felt very ill, and Howell worried that Sophie might be experiencing a reaction to having the bulk of her curse so suddenly and violently removed. His method having been driven more by desperation than skill, it was entirely possible she could be suffering some side-effects. Howell's restless concern delayed his exit that much longer. Meanwhile, he thought of ten more things to tell Michael.

"And make sure she gets something warm to eat at lunch," Howell added to the already lengthy list of instructions. "But nothing too difficult to digest. Soup or stew without bread should do." Then he had to go to the cupboard to make sure they had the makings for the aforementioned dishes. While he was there, something else occurred to Howell. "Make sure she has a rest after, to ease her digestion. In fact, an afternoon nap wouldn't hurt." Howell gazed thoughtfully at Sophie's cubby hole. "But that cot she sleeps on is dreadful. Take her upstairs to my room." He missed the shocked look on Michael's face at this order, too busy thinking of how to keep Sophie quiet and comfortable for the rest of the day. "Here, I'll put clean sheets on the bed." And he did, with hardly more than a thought. "But don't let her sleep too long, because that might make her more ill, or keep her awake tonight."

Howell cast another sideward glance at Sophie, who had remained suspiciously silent through all of his instructions. Ill or not, he had a difficult time believing she had no objection to any of the plans he'd been making for her. But she merely sat, hunched forward in her chair, looking less pale than before, her eyes tightly shut. It occurred to Howell that she might be faking. Even at death's door, Sophie should be arguing with the orders he was giving for her care. Eyeing her warily, he told Michael, "But don't leave her alone in my room. The temptation to snoop might prove too much to let her rest."

"Yes, Howl."

"Good lad, Michael." Howell took another step toward the door before turning back. "Make sure to remember everything I've told you, now."

"I will, Howl," Michael replied patiently.

"And don't let her exert herself in any form or fashion."

"I won't."

"That's **no work **of _any _kind."

Finally, even Michael's patience looked to be wearing thin. "I understand."

Perhaps he did, but Howell doubted very much that Sophie did. She was probably listening intently to every word they said, but without her usual angry glares and arguments, he couldn't be sure.

"All right," Howell said, finally, walking to the door with slow and reluctant steps. He bent to grab the guitar and turned back once more. "And Michael…"

"Yes?" His apprentice's tone was approaching longsuffering.

"This goes for you, too, Calcifer," Howell said, pointing a long, bony finger at the fire demon, who seemed to have drifted off in the midst of all of his directions.

"What? Why me?" His purple eyes flickered blearily in Howell's direction.

"If I come back and find out that _either _of you has allowed Sophie to be up and about her usual mischief today, exhausting herself again, I shall have your hides." Howell held up one hand, palm flat, to show he meant business. The gesture was obscure enough that it could be read to imply either a physical hiding or a rather more unpleasant magical one, and perhaps both – which was probably closest to what Howell would actually do if he came back to find Sophie ill again. Michael, who had never before been threatened by Howell, was clearly at a loss for words. Calcifer, however, was not.

"All right, all right, Mother Jenkins! Now off you go. We'll be fine."

Howell did not appreciate having his over-protectiveness mocked, and glowered at Calcifer, throwing him an angry glare as he stepped out onto the hillside and shut the door behind him – he couldn't slam it for fear of disturbing Sophie. Out on the heath, the castle door drifted slowly away from him as Howell remained where he was, taking a moment to come down from the mania that had possessed him since he'd first seen Sophie looking so ill. The feeling of holding her in his arms lingered in his muscles as if they, too, were unwilling to let go of the memory. The tingle of it reached right down to his bones, and for a moment, Howell was tempted to go right back inside and throw caution to the wind. So what if she looked old? If that was what Sophie truly wanted, Howell felt certain he could learn to live with it in time.

But. Then a truly awful thought occurred to Howell: What if Sophie had drawn the curse back onto herself…because of _him_? What if she preferred being cursed to having Howell pursue her? What if she had chosen to remain old because she thought it would shield her from his advances? Forgetting all about the way she had blushed at him last night, Howell began to panic, wondering if it might actually be true. What a horrible thought. Horrible! No, there had to be another reason why she would do that. There **had **to be!

Right now, there was only one person Howell could think of who might have a better grasp of the convoluted workings of Sophie's mind than he did. One person who could assure him this was not the reason why Sophie had not let him break the curse completely. Thinking of nothing more than having this fear allayed, Howell took off for Upper Folding in a whirlwind of desperation.

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**Author's Notes:** The first three lines of dialogue are straight out of _HMC_, and some of my very favourites.

The bit about flankers trying to wrest the ball from Howell is a rugby reference, and I will go more into that and the position I believe Howell played in later chapters.


	13. Howell has trouble with some women

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Mrs. Fairfax, Percival, Lettie

**Rating: **T

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 13: **_In which Howell has trouble with some women_

By the time Howell arrived at Mrs. Fairfax's -- a full two minutes later -- he'd had far too long to think of all the reasons why Sophie might have kept the curse on. He was desperate to disprove his theory, to find some other explanation that would account for her inexplicable actions. He had to find Lettie.

Naturally, she was nowhere in sight as he crossed the common to the large cottage. He hoped she was not with her mystery suitor, because if she was, they were about to find their date joined by a third wheel. Howell would not be made to wait for his answers because of some pointless drivel like fawning over another man. When Mrs. Fairfax and not Lettie answered the door, he was very nearly cross. The impeccable manners Howell had displayed upon all of his previous visits were conspicuously absent. "Lettie," he panted, still short of breath from having rushed the speed spell. "Where is she? I must see her!"

"Well, Mr. Oak!" Mrs. Fairfax exclaimed in that eternally-energetic manner of hers. "How delightful to see you again!" Howell could tell just by the look of her that Mrs. Fairfax was priming for one of her long, one-sided conversations. He had even less patience than usual today, and was not about to let her begin.

"Thank you, Anabel." Howell cut in just in time with one of his dazzling smiles, startling Mrs. Fairfax out of her ramble through injudicious use of her first name. "But if you would be so kind as to tell me where Lettie is?" He noted with interest that two splotches of pink had appeared on Mrs. Fairfax's cheeks and continued to blossom as she answered.

"Well! I believe she's -- that is -- I did see her out in the back, earlier."

"_Thank_ you." Howell took her hand and bowed over it, gallantly. "Always a pleasure." Mrs. Fairfax continued to splutter as Howell leapt off the porch and ducked around the side of the house before she could recover enough to say more.

"Oh, Mr. Oak!" Apparently he had not been fast enough. Howell pretended not to hear her as she came flouncing out of the house after him. "Just a moment!"

When he reached the back garden, Howell realised why Mrs. Fairfax had been attempting to stop him. Lettie had decided to take the air with that dog of hers. Howell could not think how he had managed to forget about the beast after all of the trials and tribulations he'd suffered at the teeth of Lettie's various canine companions. As misfortune would have it, the current one in her possession was still that medium-large sheepdog.

The moment it saw Howell round the corner of the house, it bounded toward him, menacingly. Unfortunately for the dog, he was in no mood to be attacked a second time this morning. Howell was also no longer handicapped by a desire to please Lettie which prevented him from turning her bothersome pets into toads. As he began tracing the necessary sigil in the air, he heard Mrs. Fairfax shouting from behind him. "No! Stop! Bad dog!" Predictably, the creature did not mind her at all.

Meanwhile, Lettie had leapt up and taken her skirts in her hands to sprint across the flower beds after her pet. "Benji! Oh no! Come back!" When she looked up and caught sight of the gestures Howell was making in the air, she screamed as if someone were being murdered. "No!" The tone of her distress stopped the hound in its tracks, placing it in perfect toad-ing position. But just as Howell was about to cast the spell, Lettie caught up to the soon-to-be-amphibious dog and continued toward him at a dead run, getting right in the path of his casting.

He paused a moment to consider. Howell _did_ still feel he owed Lettie some measure of revenge for having refused him. He pondered just how angry Sophie would be with him if he turned her sister into a toad; he could always say it was an accident, after all. Howell was still debating when Lettie threw herself at him almost as hard as the scarecrow had done. Suddenly finding himself wearing a very distressed, weeping Lettie who was begging him not to harm her dog, Howell thought he definitely should have turned her into a toad. Though the way she was clinging to him very nearly tempted Howell to reconsider renewing his affection for her. Fortunately, throwing herself at him was completely out of character for Lettie, and therefore suspect. Howell did not allow it to affect him. Much.

He patted her reassuringly, a gesture which seemed to draw forth a growl from Lettie's dog. "There, there, my dear. I was merely annoyed. You know I would never actually hurt the wretched thing." Howell's eyes, however, did not lie, warning the beast to stop creeping closer when it thought he wasn't looking. What was _wrong_ with the deranged animal? The way it was behaving, one might think it was jealous in some way.

What an odd thought. His natural curiosity piqued, Howell decided to test this theory, just to see what would happen. Watching the dog carefully, he slowly put both arms around Lettie. Immediately, it sprang up from its crouch with an affronted bark and came running toward him, eyeing Howell's calves with malicious intent.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Fairfax intervened before Howell could further taunt the animal by turning his face in to Lettie's hair. "Oh no you don't!" she scolded. "Come on; inside with you!" She grabbed the ruff of its collar in both hands and began dragging it toward the back door. "Dreadfully sorry, Mr. Oak," she panted, struggling with the stubborn beast, which had planted all four feet in the ground and was still growling in Howell's direction. He flicked a finger, giving it a little shove in the direction of the door - just to help Mrs. Fairfax, of course. The dog yelped as it flew the remaining distance into the house.

Howell was surprised at how relieved he felt when Lettie pulled away from him and stepped back to watch with concern as her beloved pet disappeared inside. He took a step back of his own, subtly shaking the feel of her from his arms and smoothing a hand down his chest uncomfortably. For a moment, he feared Lettie might have managed to obscure the lingering tactile memory of Sophie. Both of them took time aside to gather themselves once Mrs. Fairfax had gone. Then, Lettie turned to him with a charmingly needy look, clasping her hands together hopefully. "Oh, Sylvester, I missed you so yesterday. Have you come to tell us you've found Sophie?"

Howell offered her a genuine sigh of disappointment. "For just a moment, I thought I had." And that was true, in a manner of speaking. "But then I lost her again."

"Oh no!" Lettie cried, and it looked as if her tears might flow again. Gods above, she was excitable! Perhaps Howell had grown spoiled being around Sophie, who was so much more grounded and steady -- she who had quietly and calmly suffered a heart attack this morning with no more than a laugh -- but he found this histrionic, feminine manner of Lettie's to be most unappealing.

"There, there," he comforted her again, but just verbally this time, lest she decide to become overly affectionate once more. "I shall succeed eventually; I just need a bit more help from you." Howell only wished he felt as certain of success as he sounded. "If you could tell me more about Sophie," he continued, "I'll be able to make the spell that much more effective."

"All right." She sniffled and took his arm, leaning on him far more than Howell was comfortable with. "Let's go sit in the orchard. I don't want to upset Benji by lingering close to the house together." Howell was beginning to have some serious reservations regarding the nature of the relationship Lettie seemed to have with her dog. Fortunately, it was no longer his problem.

"Very well, my love." It was too easy to fall back into the habit of empty endearments and false flattery. But, Howell reasoned, if Lettie was suddenly feeling something for him, playing along could only help him get the information he sought. Under the blossoming apple trees, they reached a garden seat, and Howell waited for Lettie to situate herself upon it before going down on one knee in the grass before her, playing up the role of attentive suitor. He took her hand and smiled charmingly. "Now. Tell me absolutely everything you know about Sophie."

Lettie's soft hand rested gently in his, like a tame dove, and she smiled down at Howell ever so prettily. Instead of imagining how lovely they must look together, as he once would have, Howell found himself wondering what he might do in order to get Sophie to smile at him like that, one day. His thoughts wandered off in a daydream along these lines.

"...know Sophie."

Howell blinked. Apparently, he had lost himself in the fertile realm of his imagination, for he had completely missed the first part of what Lettie had just said. He must have been more tired than he'd thought.

"Pardon?" he inquired politely, chiding himself for having allowed his daydream to distract him when he was attempting to glean information about his beloved. Howell accompanied the question with a loving, ardent expression in an attempt to distract from the fact he had not been listening.

"I said," Lettie repeated, and for a split second he had the distinct impression her fond smile was forced, "Sylvester darling, that you never did tell me how it is you know Sophie." Howell's smile froze. He was stunned both by the unexpected endearment and her pursuit of a subject he'd thought adequately avoided days ago. Clearly, he should not underestimate the Hatter women. As for Lettie suddenly showing all the signs of being smitten with him, Howell was flattered but perplexed. Perhaps his new ginger-tinted hair was working its magic on the female of the species again. If he ever found Ben Sullivan, he really would have to question him further regarding this phenomenon.

"Well, 'know' isn't _precisely_ the way I would put it," Howell told her. "Saying I know her implies that I'm familiar with her, that I have some knowledge of her inner workings. And I must confess, she baffles me unlike any other woman I have ever met." This news made Lettie's smile grow brighter, more hopeful, somehow.

"But how did you meet, silly?" Howell was disturbed how much her flirting made Lettie remind him of certain ladies at Court. "I'm sure there's a story behind it. Tell me! Or I shall think you're hiding something from me." She pouted coquettishly, and for a moment, Howell wondered who was manipulating whom. He supposed, however, that the story of their first meeting would not give any clues away, and if it would put an end to Lettie's questions so that he could get on with asking his own, relating the tale would be worthwhile.

"It was just last May Day," Howell began. "I had gone in to Market Chipping to take advantage of -- the holiday cheer." Naturally the story needed a _bit _of polishing in the retelling. "I needed the diversion after all of the hours I had been putting into my work around then." Lettie didn't need to know all of the effort had been expended merely to save his own arse after ending things with Violet. "As I was wandering through Market Square, admiring the -- festive decorations, I saw the most beautiful fair-haired creature hiding in a doorway, looking terrified of the crowd and the fireworks. Naturally, being a gentleman, I immediately made my way to her side and offered assistance."

Lettie was still smiling, but her eyes had narrowed just a bit, and she was looking at Howell more intensely than he would have liked. He realised he might have been a bit too enthusiastic in describing how Sophie had looked to him that first time. Perhaps it had made Lettie jealous. Howell quickly backtracked so as not to alienate his one source of information about Sophie. "Naturally, when I saw you, I realised how much her looks paled by comparison. But there _is_ somewhat of a family resemblance, which prompted me to ask..."

From the front of the house came sounds of a commotion. Howell wondered vaguely what could be causing so much fuss, as Lettie ruthlessly pursued her line of questioning. "And then?"

Howell smiled avoidantly. "Then? There's hardly more to tell. I made sure she reached her destination safely, and that was the last I saw of her for some time."

"May Day..." Lettie put a perfectly-manicured finger to her chin as she thought out loud. "That wasn't long before she disappeared!" Perhaps it was Howell's imagination, but he thought he heard a hint of accusation in her words. He forced a laugh.

"I assure you, I was not the one who spirited her away." And that was true, though he would have done anything in his power to do so had he been able to find her again. "And why ever would I kidnap the sun when the refined light of the beautiful moon shines so exquisitely upon me?" Howell bent and gently brushed her knuckles with his lips.

Apparently satisfied by this answer, Lettie looked down upon him lovingly. For a moment, they stayed frozen in that position, merely gazing into one another's eyes. No doubt it would have made a convincing picture of two lovers to any onlooker, but Howell's heart could not have been further away. He looked into the limpid pools of Lettie's eyes without even seeing them, wondering if Michael and Calcifer had managed to restrain Sophie thus far.

He had threatened them, but the truth was, Howell knew full well it would be Sophie's fault alone if he got home to find her scrubbing the shower. If Sophie was decided on something, there was little anyone could do to stop her. What had happened with the curse this morning was a case in point. "Lettie…dear…" Howell tried to get the conversation back around to his line of questioning. But she interrupted him.

"It sounds like Aunt Anabel has guests." He strained to hear the sound of voices from the front porch. "I wonder who it could be."

"Does it matter?" Howell asked. "Surely you get visitors here quite often."

Lettie cast him a doubtful look. "You might be surprised. Aunt Anabel does so like to talk. Sometimes…it can keep guests away."

"That _does_ surprise me," Howell said in an exaggerated fashion that showed he wasn't at all surprised. Lettie laughed and swatted his shoulder.

"Oh, Sylvester. Behave."

Howell was frankly appalled at the flirting Lettie was doing with him today. It seemed so out of place from the way she had treated him on all of his previous visits. He did not doubt his charm and good looks had finally made an impact on her, it was just that he was at a complete loss for how to react now that he was no longer in love with her. The whole business made him decidedly uncomfortable. If Howell could have slithered out, he would have done so already, but he needed to have his questions answered about Sophie.

"Let's go see who it is."

Howell sighed as Lettie stood to go. "_Must_ we? I thought you'd said we were going to spend time _away_ from the house today – alone." Howell hadn't meant to imply anything improper would be taking place between them, but when Lettie looked at him, startled and blushing, he realised it had rather sounded like it. "To **talk**, I mean," he amended too late.

"Oh, well..." Lettie laughed nervously. "Let's just see who it is. If it's no one interesting, we can come back."

Howell was beginning to get a bad feeling about this. There was a particular itch starting in his left foot that foretold trouble. He tried once more to talk Lettie out of the venture. "That's such a long way for you to go only to come right back. Why don't you let _me_ go instead? I'll report back, and you can decide if it's worth going."

"It's not so very far," Lettie insisted. "And…I have a feeling your idea of interesting and mine may be quite different." Howell could not be certain, but he thought he might have just been insulted. Clearly mulish stubbornness not only ran but stampeded through the Hatter family. In spite of the uncomfortable feeling he had about Mrs. Fairfax's guests, he gave in, realising he had been defeated from the start.

Lettie took his arm as they crossed the orchard, and chattered at him about the weather. She seemed almost nervous. It occurred to him that she might have been insistent about taking a walk toward the house because she feared to be alone with him. That was complimentary, after a certain fashion, and made him feel somewhat better about this exercise. Howell wasn't listening to the pointless small talk she was making; his ears were trained on the voices coming from the front of the house. There had been something familiar in the shouting he'd heard earlier.

By the time they reached the turn, Lettie had stopped speaking, giving Howell the opportunity he needed to recognise the two voices conversing with Mrs. Fairfax in the front garden. Panicked, his only thought was that Sophie and Lettie must not see one another. If this were to occur, Howell felt certain his beloved sun would never return to warm the castle again. If Sophie had a chance to speak to Lettie, the jig would be up in more ways than one. Howell was not ready to part with her. He was hurt that she was so determined to part with him that she had come all this way – with Michael, the little traitor – to do so.

Just before Lettie could turn the corner, Howell rashly grabbed her arm and yanked her back. As she turned to him with a little frown to see why he had been so rude and abrupt, Howell did the only distracting thing that came to mind under the circumstances, which was to shove Lettie up against the side of the house for a kiss.

She froze, at first, those lovely blue eyes opening wide in shock. Howell knew this because his eyes remained open the whole time; this was business, after all, not pleasure. Desperate times had called for desperate measures, but Howell kept the kiss as chaste as possible – for a kiss that lasted a full 32 seconds – feeling ill at what he'd been forced to do. It wasn't just that he was kissing his future sister-in-law – _that _bothered him hardly at all, for he had already courted her for weeks. Howell did not believe in forcing himself on a woman like a starved Viking. He had always fared perfectly well convincing them to come to him. Unwilling partners were of no interest to Howell.

Once Lettie overcame her shock, she went limp in his arms, and had her eyes not still been open, he might have thought she'd fainted. Perhaps it was merely a diversion tactic, for soon after, she began to struggle against him. Howell felt the seven league boots' spell activate. Hoping fervently that this meant Sophie and Michael had gone, he let go of her quite willingly.

The first thing Lettie did out of his arms was strike him full force across the face. Howell supposed he deserved that, but when she came at him again with her delicate little hands balled into fists, he grabbed her by the wrists to restrain her. "You _pig_! You filthy, disgusting – let go of me! Don't you touch me ever again!"

In spite of her fury, Howell could have continued to restrain her quite easily had she not just then struck him with a bolt of magic that snaked neatly under his shields. He immediately let go of her, wondering why it was he never thought of Lettie as a witch; from the jolt she had just given him, her talent was more than trifling. As she continued to shriek bloody murder at him, using words he did not think young ladies were supposed to know in this world, Howell reinforced his personal wards and vainly attempted to smooth down his static-riddled hair.

"What-what? What's all this fuss?" Mrs. Fairfax came trundling around the side of the house to see what was the matter.

"I apologise, Mrs. Fairfax," Howell said with a rueful smile. "I was just leaving." Having not heard a peep from Michael or Sophie since he'd felt the seven league boots go, Howell felt certain they must have gone as well -- 10 and a half miles per step, one in each boot. He felt certain that had been Michael's idea, somehow. And he would pay for it. Howell had to take his frustrations out on _someone_. He was not pleased at having had to sacrifice his only source of information on Sophie in order to avert disaster.

Now that it was safe for him to leave, Howell couldn't wait to do so. Lettie's voice had climbed to an incessant shrill as she informed Mrs. Fairfax just how much of a beast he was, and it made him wish he had a bullet for one of them to be put out of his misery. In spite of Lettie's hysterics, Mrs. Fairfax listened with perfect calm, a knowing smile puckering her ripe apple lips. "Now Lettie, dear, I'm sure Mr. Oak meant no offense. Perhaps his methods were a tad…overzealous, but I feel certain he simply meant to express his adoration for you. Isn't that right, Mr. Oak?" Mrs. Fairfax turned to include him in their conversation with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye.

Aggravated, fed up, and still smarting from the blows Lettie had struck him, Howell found he had had enough of this charade. The way it had made him feel this morning to play along, he didn't think he could bear to continue. He wanted to go home to Sophie. He wanted to explore his genuine feelings, now that he had some. This empty game had become unpleasant as well as tiresome. "No, as a matter of fact," Howell replied calmly, deriving some satisfaction from the shocked expression on Mrs. Fairfax's face at his blatant honesty. "After weeks of attempting to do just that, I find I could not love this hysterical, frigid, shrewish woman for all the tea in China."

While Mrs. Fairfax looked utterly befuddled by his reference to a country that did not exist in this world, Lettie glared at him most fiercely. She put her hands on her hips and stamped her foot in outrage. "Well, it's a good thing you love yourself so much, because no one else _could!_ You're a heartless, empty shell of a man, Wizard Howl, and I pity the woman who ends up with you!"

Howell did not like to show just how much she had rattled him. As if it were not bad enough to learn Lettie had apparently known his true identity for some time, proving that _he_ had been the one being fooled, her off the cuff insult played on his deepest fear; that of being unloved and unlovable. Backed into a corner by her words, Howell turned nasty.

"Do you pity your own sister, then?" His smile was thoroughly unpleasant. When Lettie looked confused and then frightened, he continued. "Shall I tell you a secret?" His eyes shifted from Lettie to Mrs. Fairfax, who was nervously fumbling out a handkerchief, no doubt knotted into a simple protection spell to ward him off, should he try anything. Howell laughed out loud. "Dear Mrs. Fairfax, do you honestly believe there is anything you might do to stop me, should I choose to cast a spell upon either of you? Both of you together are no match for me." A malignant shadow crept into his unpleasant smile. "But have no fear. Both of you are safe, thanks to Sophie."

"I knew it!" Lettie shouted. "Where is Sophie! What have you done with her?"

"Why, nothing whatever." Howell turned and casually walked around to the front of the house. "As for where, well. Sophie was here just a moment ago." He smiled back over his shoulder at them. "Isn't that right, Mrs. Fairfax?" Howell watched the realisation dawn on the old witch as Lettie looked to her for confirmation.

"Oh dear heavens!" she gasped. "I _knew_ she looked familiar!" She reached out to her apprentice and pulled her into a grieving hug. "Oh, Lettie! Oh dear!"

But Lettie would not be comforted. "If you've done something to Sophie, so help me I'll—I'll--!" Tears ran down her cheeks, which had gone attractively blotchy with fear and fury.

"Oh, I'm not the one who turned your sister into an old woman," Howell told them, casually. "That was the Witch of the Waste."

"An old woman!" Lettie very nearly swooned with shock.

"Never fear," Howell assured them. "I shall turn her back eventually, one way or another. For now, Sophie has gone home to me, where she belongs." He only hoped that was the truth of the situation. If he found out Michael had taken her somewhere else in the seven league boots, there would be hell to pay.

"You monster!" Lettie wept. "Bring her back!"

"No, I don't think so." Howell shook his head in mock regret. "You see, Sophie has become quite precious to me. I'm afraid I simply can't be convinced to part with her. And I strongly recommend you do not attempt to convince her to part with me. In fact…" He turned and laid his hand on the front gate, placing a binding spell on it that would prevent anyone going through it from reaching the castle. "As of this moment, I am strictly forbidding visits of any kind." He turned back to face them with a smile, leaning playfully against the fence. "In the meantime, Ladies. There's no need to play hero. I assure you, Sophie is quite safe with me."

"Liar!" Lettie cried, throwing another bolt of magic at him. This time, Howell was ready for it, and it bounced harmlessly off his shields.

"Temper, temper," he chided her. "Is that any way to treat your future brother-in-law?"

From her expression, Lettie was too shocked and disgusted by this suggestion for words. Howell laughed. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must be getting home." Catching a glint in Lettie's watery eyes, he added, "And please don't try to follow me. I simply won't allow it." Howell lightly and easily leapt the fence before turning back to take his leave. "It's been a pleasure, as always, Ladies." But before he could make his exit, Mrs. Fairfax spoke up.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Howl. A pupil of Mrs. Pentstemmon behaving in such a way! What would _she_ think of this?"

Howell was genuinely angry at this attempt to manipulate him. How was it these women kept finding the chinks in his armour? "Mrs. Pentstemmon," he responded stiffly, "Would be happy for me, I should think." But he was not at all certain of this. "She always wanted me to find motivation outside myself."

Lettie could hardly get the next words out, she was crying so hard and trembling like a leaf. "If you truly loved Sophie, you would let her see her family!"

"And so I shall," Howell said. "When the time is right."

"Shameful!" Mrs. Fairfax repeated.

"I don't believe you!" Lettie cried.

"You are both welcome to believe about me whatever it is you choose," Howell snapped, utterly irritated with both of them by this point. Fortunately, the only woman whose opinion mattered to him currently was Sophie. "Good day!" And with that, he disappeared in a puff of scarlet smoke, leaving them nothing to follow even if they'd tried.

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**Author's Note: **This concludes my coverage of events which take place during chapter 8 of _HMC_ and a wee bit of chapter 9. The next chapter will wrap up 9.


	14. The Villain's Lament

**Characters this chapter:** Howl, Calcifer

**Rating: **T

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 14: **_The Villain's Lament_

Howell did not return to the castle right away. The mood he was in, it was likely both Michael and Calcifer would end up as toads. And he could not bear to face Sophie after all that had just happened. Howell felt bent awry, vaguely wrong, as if something had broken loose inside of him; something dark and unpleasant. He did not understand precisely why he had behaved in the way he just had to Lettie and Mrs. Fairfax. It had hardly been gentlemanly. Even if they _had_ poked his fragile self-confidence in tender places, there was no excuse for rudeness, as Mrs. Pentstemmon always said. But it wasn't simply the rudeness, it was the subtle threatening, a feeling of villainy which had -- for a few minutes -- consumed him. It struck Howell that he had enjoyed it, and that bothered him quite a lot. Howell Jenkins was many things -- several of them unpleasant -- but he was no villain.

It occurred to him that the Witch of the Waste could not always have been quite the way she was these days. Surely there had been a time when she had been sane, for example. Patches of a kinder, gentler nature, worn through like a threadbare carpet, had shown now and then even when they had been together. Perhaps she had come to be the way she was through a gradual slouch toward evil which had slowly worn away the woman she had once been. Howell wondered, with no small amount of horror, if it were possible the same thing might be happening to him. There was no denying he and Violet had quite a bit in common, and having given one's heart away to a fallen star was quite a burden to bear. She had spoken to him of it, now and again, hints and riddles about a price paid which Howell had mostly ignored at the time – far more romantic to play the lover than worry about any dangers which might await him in the far distant future. Or so it had seemed then. But perhaps he was _not_ surely immune to the nasty side-effects of having no heart, as he had once believed.

This was terrible. Having fled to his secret garden at the edge of the Waste, Howell spent the day growing increasingly more beautiful flowers in order to prove he was not yet black with evil. But he found himself quite frightened of the possibility all the same. It made Howell feel unclean, unworthy of Sophie, afraid of what she might see in him if he were to return home now. It also still bothered him that he had forced a kiss on her sister. At the time, he had thought it necessary to prevent them seeing one another. But perhaps it had not been. Perhaps it had just been his long-restrained villainy finally finding an excuse to slip its leash. And what would Sophie say if she knew what he had done?

"She'd despise me even more than she already does," he told a flowering acanthus, sadly. "…If that is, it's even possible." He wondered how long she and Michael had been at Mrs. Fairfax's before he'd heard them, and if they'd seen anything before they'd left. He sincerely hoped they hadn't.

Howell sulked and fretted the day away, his mind drifting round and round his problems until evening wore on. As he lay in the grass, watching the sun set over the mountains, his thoughts seemed to finally exhaust themselves, and he slipped into a shallow, troubled sleep. Howell woke to a clear night sky full of stars and the eerie, cyhyraeth wail of distant winds sweeping across the Waste; not a comforting sound. He felt suddenly homesick for the castle. The diamonds in the firmament reminded him of one who would not abandon him, even were he to truly become a villain. And still he was hesitant to return home. He had no idea what he would say to Sophie when he saw her. Nor Michael.

One thing was certain: Howell would have to put forth an effort if he did not want to one day become the Dark Enchanter of the Moors. The first positive action he would take in this direction would be to present himself to the King for royal appointment to the task of finding Prince Justin. That was the least of his worries just now, and Howell supposed it would not be apocalyptic to be officially asked to do a job he'd been doing already. And with things done officially, there would be pecuniary compensation. That would make Michael happy; he always was so worried about money. Howell couldn't care less about money; he never had. It was the final point of disagreement over which Gareth had informed him he was no longer welcome to live with them at Rivendell, hinting that he might perhaps also not care to drop by so often, corrupting his niece and nephew with his irresponsible ways. Thoughts of Wales shouldn't have turned depressing, but they always inevitably seemed to.

Howell decided he would go see the King in the morning. Might as well get it over with. Even should he be forced to openly volunteer for the position, due to the King's fumbling subtleties, it would be worth doing if he was prevented from slouching toward an unworthiness of Sophie. Resolved upon his first openly good deed in this world, Howell turned himself into a swallow and flew home. There was no reason to get there too quickly, and if he took his time, perhaps Sophie and Michael would be in bed by the time he arrived.

When he walked into the castle, there seemed to be no one about. Howell was both relieved and worried at this. Of course Calcifer was home. The fire demon peered thoughtfully out of the grate at him. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"

_I hope not_, Howell thought, and sighed. "In a manner of speaking." He took his time placing Sullivan's guitar in its corner before turning slowly around, his eyes flicking about the room for any sign of Sophie.

"They've gone," Calcifer said. "So you can speak freely. Come on." A green finger-flame pointed to Sophie's chair by the hearth. "You can come tell me your troubles, so long as you promise not to drip on me."

At the offer of a bit of comfort and commiseration at last, Howell sagged visibly, covering his eyes with one hand. Slouching over, he folded himself into the seat without meeting the fire demon's eyes; his legs always had been too long for that particular chair. But before Howell could begin his tragic tale of woe, his eyes fell on his favourite suit -- or what was left of it -- spread out on the floor like Swiss cheese. "Oh, this is just the _end!_" he cried. He felt utterly martyred. After having survived everything up to now, Howell felt this was the straw that would finally cause him to break down. He'd only had two fancy dress suits. Now he had merely one. "Why is she doing this to me?" he wailed, hiding his face in his hands, lest weeping become necessary.

Calcifer leaned out of the grate to look at the suit, sympathetic. "I told her you wouldn't appreciate it."

"Yes, well," Howell replied hoarsely. "I've a feeling that was rather the point."

"You may be right." the fire demon sizzled with amusement. "She _did_ dig into it right after Michael and I told her there was no hope of your truly being in love with that Lettie."

Howell looked up, anger flashing in his glass-green eyes. "You told her _that?_" Now Sophie would think him flighty and unfaithful as well as all the other crimes she numbered against him.

If a fire could shrug, that must have been the gesture Calcifer made by way of response. "It's true, isn't it? Do you _want_ her to think you're in love with someone else?"

"If it stops her cutting up my best clothes, YES!"

"Oh, quit shouting," Calcifer said. "You don't mean that. **I** know better than anyone." Howell slumped back in the chair, sulkily. "And you can always buy a new suit. But tell me, cabbage-head. What's _really_ the matter? You've gone and done something stupid again, haven't you? I can tell."

"Thanks _ever so_ for the support," Howell grumbled.

"Oh, sulky-puss," Calcifer spoke down to him as if he were a small child. "Come on, out with it. I'm losing patience."

"I…" Howell paused to look appropriately tragic. "I threatened Sophie's sister today." Before Calcifer could interrupt with a cutting remark, he pressed on. "I _had_ to, Calcifer. Sophie went to see her. I knew Lettie would want to come here and retrieve her. So I…became quite rude and made certain they wouldn't reach the castle."

Calcifer surprised him by approving. "Sensible of you."

Howell groaned, feeling sorry for himself. "Even so, I fear Sophie will never forgiveme."

"I don't see any reason why she has to know," Calcifer replied, reasonably. "We can't have Sophie leaving just yet. And besides, it would undermine all of our elusion and misdirection spells if we suddenly started having houseguests." Howell had not considered it from that angle. Perhaps he should have consulted Calcifer sooner.

"But that can't possibly be what's upset you."

Howell shook his head, realising it was not. "Sophie tried to leave me today, Calcifer. I'm certain she did not mean to merely pay a visit to her sister."

"I know," the fire demon replied, surprising him again. "That's why I sent Michael after her. I knew she would come back if he was with her. Sophie's like you. She's too soft-hearted to have just sent Michael away."

"Really?" Howell sniffled into a conjured tissue, feeling guilty about having blamed Michael all day for playing her accomplice. "They _did_ leave rather early, now I think of it," Howell admitted. In fact, they had left without even seeing Lettie, he realised. Michael was a good lad after all, thwarting Sophie's intentions like that.

"I imagine it was because they saw **you** there," Calcifer answered.

"Oh, they did?" Howell asked, feeling even more guilty. "**What** did they see?"

The fire demon snorted and popped. "How should I know? Whatever it was, it made Sophie ask if you might not be in love with Lettie after all. And then cut up your suit." He eyed the tragedy on the floor somewhat accusingly.

"Oh." Howell's eyes roamed the room, his long fingers fumbling restlessly in his lap.

"What did you do?" Calcifer demanded.

"Well I—" He would not meet the fire demon's eyes.

"Tell me now, or we'll never fix it."

"Well. I _may_ have kissed Lettie. For. Several moments."

Calcifer snorted. "Typical."

Howell became defensive. "I only did it because I love her, Calcifer!"

"Who? Lettie?"

"No! Sophie! I love Sophie!" For a moment, his confession seemed to echo through the castle, then it faded suddenly, as if having been absorbed by invisible ears. Howell shrugged off a creepy feeling, mistaking it for his usual discomfort with admitting the truth.

"So what you're telling me," Calcifer said, "is you kissed Sophie's _sister_, because you love **Sophie**."

"Well…" Howell resumed his uncomfortable fidgeting. "Essentially…yes."

"No wonder she cut up your suit, you cabbage-head!" Calcifer roared up the chimney. "I've told you before! Women who've fallen in love with you don't seem to like it when you seduce their sisters…or best friends…or mothers, or aunts, or…any of the above. They've all told me, one way and another, as you've snuck out the back door to do just what you pleased. Have some _sense_, would you? You don't even love this girl!"

"Of course I don't! I only did it because I didn't want Sophie to see her and--!" Howell froze in mid-tirade. "_Beth?_" It took him a moment to realise he'd become so fuddled, he was speaking Cymraeg. "Excuse me, _what_ did you just say?"

"I said don't court multiple women at one time, you cabbage-head," Calcifer snapped.

"No, no. Before that." Howell was suddenly feeling quite reasonable. He smoothed the bangs out of his eyes and gestured with one hand as he prompted Calcifer to remember. "There was the suit, and then you said you'd told me before…something. Tell me again, Calcifer."

The fire demon looked at him for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed mischievously. "Always eat your veggies?"

"No, that's not remotely what you said!" Howell very nearly lost his temper. But he calmed, and tried once more, needing to hear it spoken aloud directly. "Please say again what you told me before."

The blue flames of Calcifer's face tilted, thoughtfully. "Wear clean pants? Don't leave without an umbrella? I know! Brush your teeth before you go to bed!"

"No, no, no!" Howell stamped his feet and clenched his hands into fists, ready to throw a tantrum. "Now you're just being difficult!"

The fire demon crackled with devilish delight. "Then what was it?"

"We were talking about **Sophie**," Howell reminded him unnecessarily. "And then you said something about women who've fallen in love with me." He paused, eyeing the fire demon uncertainly. They stared at one another in silence, each daring the other to say it first.

Finally, Calcifer could not resist remarking at Howell's expense. "Haven't you worked out by now Sophie's in love with you?" he sneered, revealing jagged, crackling purple teeth.

Howell nearly fell out of his chair. Trembling with pent up emotion, he felt obligated to offer at least a tentative argument to this shocking news. "But…she despises me."

"She does." Calcifer nodded. "She detests you so heartily, you're nearly all she ever talks about. Have some sense, you silly cabbage!" he shot sparks out of the grate in his excitement. "Hasn't it occurred to you that she hates you just a bit _too_ much?"

Howell gazed sadly down at the remains of his blue and silver suit. "The extent of her dislike is quite unavoidable."

"Now think, cabbage-head," the fire demon said. "Why would Sophie be so angry that she came home and cut holes in your best clothes? If she'd merely wanted you to stay away from her sister, wouldn't it have made more sense to confront you about it?"

Howell cast his friend a doubtful sideward glance. "What are you saying, Calcifer?" The fire demon glared at him, impatient for Howell to work it out for himself this time. "You're think…she's _jealous?_"

Calcifer cocked an eyebrow at him and reached for one of the logs stacked just outside the grate. "Took you long enough."

Howell blinked back at him for several seconds as it all sank in. Then he began to laugh. It started as a soft, sudden burst. Then another. Then it rose to a steady, amused chuckling, from whence it crescendoed into gales of helpless relief. This time, Howell _did_ fall out of the chair.

"You _have_ gone mad," Calcifer commented acerbically.

"Quite," Howell answered him, still laughing, delighted.

After some silence, in which Howell began to compose himself, Calcifer asked, "So what happens now?"

"Heaven only knows!" Howell declared, beaming. "There's far too much going on at the moment for me to remotely project." He flung out his arms and twirled, euphoric.

"Well, if I may suggest," the fire demon said, in that way that meant it was not merely a suggestion, "a kind word now and then wouldn't hurt. You tease her too much. **I** know what you mean by it, but Sophie doesn't. She takes things literally. And she'll never come round to realising her feelings if you keep aggravating her."

"She doesn't know!" Howell bellowed, overexcited. Calcifer gave him a sour look for interrupting and not realising something obvious again. Howell was swiftly chastened, desiring to hear the rest. "Sorry, Calcifer. Go on."

"Subtlety is not her forte. You have to take that into consideration… In fact, you can try it out now, because here they come," Calcifer announced. "And about time, too." But he was speaking to himself; Howell had disappeared up to his bedroom. The fire demon rolled his eyes. "Coward."

Upstairs, Howell paced restlessly, trying to plan how best to use this new information, while he waited for Sophie and Michael to get to sleep. Overjoyed as he was that things were finally biased in his favour once again, he had to proceed with caution. The situation required a delicate touch. Sophie had to be carefully led to a realisation of her feelings as if they had occurred to her naturally. And there was still the business of her old age, and why she had put the curse back on. Howell could not begin to understand how Sophie's mind worked, and clearly he needed to in order to get anywhere with her.

What he needed was a woman's opinion; an inside insight into the workings of the feminine mind. There was really only one woman Howell could think of both trustworthy and clever enough to help him. Even if she could not make any more sense of Sophie's nonsensical mental processes, Howell wanted Sophie to meet Mrs. Pentstemmon. Having his old tutor's approval would mean a great deal to him.

Tentatively, Howell assembled a schedule for the morning. First, he would send word ahead that he was prepared to see the King. Then he would drop by Mrs. Pentstemmon's and apprise her of the situation, making an appointment for her to see take a look at Sophie the following day. Then he would tell Sophie they were proceeding with his plan to blacken his name to the King. Mrs. Pentstemmon's would seem a stop along the way, when it was, in fact, their true destination. Afterward, he would make some excuse to come home without visiting the Palace. Yes, it was perfect; and he was feeling clever and brilliant again, which was a great relief to Howell.

Once Michael had finished his bath and shut himself up in his room, Howell listened for the snores from under the stairs which meant Sophie had finally fallen asleep. Then he crept downstairs in search of the seven-league boots. He found them back in the closet, covered in a sticky, unpleasant brown substance he did not want to examine more closely. Howell snuck out to the yard and buried them thoroughly in his most prickly scrap heap. He doubted very much Sophie would go digging through it, especially after the row they'd had out here about cleaning. Satisfied that Sophie would not be leaving him again any time soon, Howell ported up to his room and prepared for bed. No longer troubled by the potential threat of slouching villainy, he lay in bed, sketching mental designs for their wedding clothes until he fell asleep.

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**Author's Notes: **The _cyhyraeth_ (pronounced "kuh-HUH-r(eye)th") is sort of the Welsh version of a banshee. One of the things their wailing presages is the death of a Welshman outside of Wales, which is why it would be a particularly creepy thing for Howell to hear in the winds of the Waste.

"Beth" is the Welsh interrogative "What?" or in this particular case, "WOT?" XD

This concludes my coverage of events covered in chapter 9 of _HMC_. The next chapter will feature a visit to Mrs. Pentstemmon.


	15. Mrs Pentstemmon promises Howell help

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Sophie, Michael, Hunch, Mrs. Pentstemmon

**Rating:** T

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**Chapter 15:** _In which Mrs. Pentstemmon promises Howell some help_

Howell awoke early the next morning, sitting up in bed with a smug grin already painted across his face. He tripped lightly down the stairs, feeling as though he were walking on air. On the third step from the bottom, he twirled gracefully and leapt to the floor, landing silent as a cat. Before he reached the bathroom, Howell felt his joyous morning dance must needs include a kiss blown in the direction of the snores issuing from Sophie's cubbyhole under the stairs. After which he launched himself into the bathroom by means of a powerful, yet elegant jeté.

Howell hummed to himself as he prepared for a day in Kingsbury, taking even more care with his appearance than usual, not because he was going to see the King, but because he was going to pay a visit to Mrs. Pentstemmon. Her eagle eye missed no imperfection, no matter how small, and Howell did not wish to have any with which to present her. Because he was not planning on spending any time at Court, intending to be home as soon as possible to spend the afternoon and evening with Sophie, Howell put on his honeysuckle perfume for her.

He felt positively radiant with happiness as he stepped out into the front room to set knowing eyes on Sophie for the first time. She was cooking breakfast, looking old as ever, and yet, to Howell's eyes, she could not have been more perfect. _"Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime/Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time."_ He was put in mind of his favourite Raleigh poem more and more often each time he looked at Sophie. It occurred to Howell that he no longer cared about her physical appearance. Certainly, her apparent age would cause an impediment or two to their relationship. But for now, he simply did not mind it. It didn't occur to him, or enter into his adoration of her. He smiled to himself as she hustled and bustled around, stubbornly pretending as if he did not exist.

Thinking of the advice Calcifer had given him last night, Howell decided to do some more obvious flirting with her while questioning Sophie regarding her activities of the day before. He was pleased with himself for working in a reference to "The Sun Rising" in his very first sentence to her. Curious to hear what excuse she had given herself for chopping up his favourite suit, Howell made certain to add that he was not asking out of anger when he questioned her motive for having done so. Sophie's excuse was weak; she knew he could have fixed it with magic. Gently, Howell reminded her of this, and added that he could make her a pair of seven-league boots, as well, thereby letting her know he had found out about the little trip she had taken yesterday. To his surprise, Sophie took this revelation in stride. She became neither angry nor defensive. Was it possible she was becoming accustomed to him? Howell was touched by the idea and at the same time found it summarily disagreeable. He did so enjoy watching Sophie become angry.

Howell was the one surprised when she admitted to having taken a trip to the marshes, as well. He felt relieved he had removed the bulk of her curse before she had decided to go gallivanting across creation. Howell attempted to draw attention away from his surprise by telling Sophie directly that he had seen her at Mrs. Fairfax's. After yesterday, it felt good to lie again, even just this small untruth. In response, she claimed to have merely been paying a visit to Mrs. Fairfax, a story which Howell found very interesting. He had hardly expected her to tell the truth about her relationship to Lettie, but it was just as Calcifer had pointed out: she was ignoring a perfect opportunity to tell him to stay away from her sister. Sophie did, however, admit to having seen him, feigning innocence of the knowledge he would be there courting Lettie.

Howell could not let her get away with that. There was room for only one liar in his castle, and he, as a master of the art, was the logical choice. The verbal parry and thrust had passed his lips before he'd even had time to think that it was exactly the sort of teasing Calcifer had advised him against doing. In retrospect, however, Howell did not regret it, feeling it was only a very mild sort of teasing, and she had well earned it. Just in case, he cushioned the blow by adding that he would be disappointed now if she did _not_ show up to ruin his affairs with other women, hoping that this hint was unsubtle enough for her.

Apparently, it was not. Sophie became annoyed, and accused him of being ready to leave Lettie at any moment. This time, Howell could almost taste the jealousy in her tone. Silently, he blessed Calcifer for being so observant. Tempting as it was to inform Sophie that he had _already_ lost interest in Lettie because he was smitten with _her_, the time was not yet right to inform Sophie of his feelings. But in order to help her toward a realisation of her own feelings and further inflame her jealousy, Howell pretended to be hurt by her implication and swore his undying love to Lettie. Predictably, this did not make Sophie any happier. She was all but truculent right through breakfast, casting angry glares at Howell when she thought he was not looking, and speaking only to Michael, except when she needed Howell to pass her something, at which point she became stiffly polite. He thought she and Mrs. Pentstemmon might get on after all.

When Howell got up to go, deciding Sophie could do with something else to be angry with for a time, Michael interfered with his grand exit by pestering him about the homework spell he had assigned. Howell put his apprentice off with a gesture; he had more important business to attend to than holding Michael's hand through yet another spell. When the door had shut behind him to the sound of Sophie muttering threateningly at his back, Howell turned around and smiled at it. Things seemed to be going according to plan.

Howell made his way to Sage Court, where the stately townhouse at the end of the cobbled street stood waiting for him like an old friend. After ringing the bell, he turned to admire the important orange trees in their pristine tubs, smiling as a wave of nostalgia hit him. You could always tell the season by the trees outside Mrs. Pentstemmon's; cherries in spring, oranges in summer, persimmons in autumn, and spruce in winter. In some ways, he missed coming here every day. The aura of his old tutor seemed to imbue everyone and everything around her with a natural elegance. The tastefully understated luxury and order of her life and home was so diametrically opposed to his, but it made Howell feel good to be in the presence of it, as if it made him somehow better for the experience; like admiring one of the masterworks of Monet or Degas.

Before long, Hunch answered the door, wearing his gardening clothes. "Sorry to interrupt your morning routine, old man—" The old butler silenced him with a raised hand, showing with a shrug alone that he did not mind. Hunch was a man of few words, something else completely foreign to Howell's life. If one were patient and found oneself to be in his vicinity for a sufficient amount of time, it was possible to learn that Hunch was a kind, well-educated man with a wonderful, dry sense of humour. He was also utterly devoted to his elderly mistress. Without Howell's natural curiosity, Hunch was a skilled enough servant to disappear in plain sight, and had gone unnoticed by many a guest in Mrs. Pentstemmon's home. An indispensable servant, he did everything short of cleaning the house itself and running errands. Howell liked him immensely. His calm, quiet presence was the exact opposite of the primary masculine influence Howell had grown up with.

"Madam is expecting you," was all Hunch said before turning and showing him inside.

"Yes; she would be," he replied. Mrs. Pentstemmon's powers of prescience had been noted in history books. That and laziness were the only reasons Howell had not bothered sending a note ahead, warning of his visit. No doubt he would hear about his lack of manners for having been remiss.

Once they were upstairs, instead of leading him to the drawing room, as Howell had expected, Hunch took him further down the hall to the gilt double doors which led to Mrs. Pentstemmon's bedroom. "Madam has had difficulty rising from bed lately," he explained, grieving blue eyes warning Howell not to inquire any further. "She instructed you were to meet with her while she takes her breakfast." Howell merely nodded, a chill slithering up his spine at Hunch's subdued behaviour and this disturbing news about his former tutor's health. Surely the old dame had not decided to give up the ghost at last. It was inconceivable; Howell refused even to entertain the thought.

Hunch ushered him into the sumptuous room, late morning sunlight shining feebly through the imported lace curtains obscuring the large picture window which overlooked the city. "My dear Howell," Mrs. Pentstemmon greeted him. It took Howell a moment to spy where she lay on the enormous four poster bed hung with embroidered damask. She was propped up with enough pillows to smother all of the homeless in London, her usual neat bun tucked into a sheer silk sleeping bonnet. He might have thought he had walked in on her upon having just awakened but for the understated tiara perched at the front of her bonnet and the delicate lace day gloves she was wearing, one of which extended toward him as she offered her hand. Howell rushed forward to kiss it, trying not to look stricken at just how tiny, pinched, and old she looked. Regardless of age and actual physical size, Mrs. Pentstemmon's Presence had always made her seem larger than life. She made the throne room at the Palace look dowdy and utterly inadequate to house her. Howell tried not to think what it meant that she looked not merely regal but also elderly and frail this morning.

A poignant memory pricked his chest, of his mother shortly before her death. Sick in bed, her skin pale and waxen, the flesh had hung from her beautiful cheeks. Her life was all but exhausted by fever and prolonged illness, but her eyes had been different. They had shone so brightly, Howell had been certain an angel was possessing his mother's body. He told Megan that a radiant being was about to be born from the cocoon of their mother's fragile physical form. She had accused him of making up stories again, but Howell had been certain it meant their mother was going to heaven. Strangely, he had envied her then. Howell had not known what grief was before his mother died. It frightened him that Mrs. Pentstemmon's intense hazel eyes seemed to stand out more than usual as she leveled them at him.

"You may stop treating me like a corpse." Her admonishment intruded on Howell's morbid thoughts. "I am not quite dead, thank you."

He chuckled softly, attempting to shake off the somber mood. "Never. Never," he said, backing his words with power to ward off the Grim Reaper longer still.

"Sit," Mrs. Pentstemmon ordered in the abrupt, no-nonsense fashion only she could manage without sounding in any way rude. Howell pulled a silk-cushioned chair to the side of the bed, noticing that no breakfast lay on the tray which bridged her lap, but the deck of antique playing cards she used for divination. "Now," she said, placing her old raven's claw hand on the uncut pile of cards, "let us see why you have come seeking my help today." This was a game they had often played, though whether it was because they both enjoyed games, being too clever to do things in conventional fashion, or because it helped to hold Howell's wandering attention, he had never quite been able to determine.

"Of course I must have come to ask your help." He grinned, sprawling in the chair far more casually than manners dictated.

"None of your cheek, now," Mrs. Pentstemmon warned him, her hand still poised on the top card. Her eyes cut through him like a laser, and Howell laughed, clutching his chest.

"Good heavens! What have I done this time?"

Mrs. Pentstemmon sighed and laid her hand on the coverlet once more, very stiffly turning her upper body to face him, as if there was a rod up her back. Her eyes seemed to him sad, perhaps even disappointed. "You are a good boy, Howell, though you do your best not to show it. That is a choice of comportment which is yours to make beyond these walls. But I must tell you I am terribly disappointed in this recent decision you have made in regard to your appearance. I know I taught you better."

Howell thought he would wilt under the pressure of those eyes. He laughed again, nervous. "What, this?" His hand went to his hair, tousling it, self-consciously. "Why, it's only temporary." He was wearing it now as a tribute to Sophie, but he preferred it more of a sunny-blond.

"Don't be coy; you know very well of what I speak. I have given you my opinion; you are an adult and may choose for yourself how to behave. I know this is not why you have come to see me, so let us move on from this unpleasantness."

Howell shrugged, bemused. For once, he had no idea what she was talking about. He knew Mrs. Pentstemmon preferred his hair dark - she said it brought out his eyes and made him look more respectable – but she had never objected to an alternate tint quite so strenuously. As he was struggling with this conundrum, she plucked the top card from the pile and turned it face-up. It was the 3 of Hearts. A puckered expression of distaste joined the look of disappointment she had already been wearing.

"My dear boy, I have told you several times now that I refuse to become involved in these romantic foibles of yours. You create these problems for yourself, and so you must be the one to solve them. Aside from that, you know I highly disapprove of the scandal you create around yourself in this respect—" When she turned harshly disapproving eyes on him, Howell wanted to cringe. Instead, he forced himself to smile calmly and lean forward, laying his hand over her own.

"And well I deserved this lecture three weeks ago. But please, just turn over the next card before you continue." Pursing her lips, Mrs. Pentstemmon did as he'd asked. This time it was the Ace of Hearts. Curious hazel eyes turned to give him an appraising look.

At last, she offered, "So tell me what it is you wish to ask my advice on, precisely."

Howell found her breakfast tray on the table behind him and poured them each a cup of tea, delaying as long as possible. "I find myself presently thwarted by a puzzle I have been unable to solve."

"I can see that," she replied, tapping the 3 impatiently before sipping daintily from her hand-painted teacup.

"It's not a love triangle," Howell amended, self-consciously, wondering who the third party was to which the card referred. It could be either Lettie or the Witch, and the likelihood if it being the latter made him distinctly nervous.

Mrs. Pentstemmon merely nodded. "Proceed."

Howell leaned forward, cradling the delicate china teacup in his large hands and gazing unseeingly into the clear brown liquid. "Primarily, it's this: why would a woman who is cursed continuously thwart efforts to remove said curse?"

The regal old lady opposite him gave a delicate snort, and Howell looked up at her in surprise. "Dear boy, at times you do remind me of the late Mr. Pentstemmon, rest his soul." She was looking at him with the merest hint of a smile quirking her lips – the closest she'd ever gotten in his experience. "Tell me, what would the answer be if it were a _man_ who was cursed?"

Howell very nearly said a man would never behave in so daft a manner, but he knew better, and refrained, valuing his head. Instead, he sat back and considered the question. "I suppose…if it were more convenient to remain cursed at the time…or if he were more comfortable somehow in his cursed state…" His brow furrowed. That couldn't possibly be; it didn't make any sense. While he thought aloud, Mrs. Pentstemmon turned over several more cards.

"The Witch of the Waste, I see," she commented, gazing at the Queen of Hearts with a worried frown.

"Yes," Howell admitted. "The curse was her doing."

"And this young lady of yours…" Mrs. Pentstemmon turned over the Queen of Clubs and the suicide king. Looking at them side by side, her sharp eyes grew soft. When she looked up at Howell again, they held more emotion than Howell was used to seeing from the rigid and proper old dame. "I presume she has a name?" She quirked an expectant eyebrow at him as only Mrs. Pentstemmon could do.

Howell picked up the Queen of Clubs and offered her a lopsided grin. "Sophie." The merest fond sigh escaped him. How could he be missing her already? "Sophie Hatter."

"Hatter," Mrs. Pentstemmon said, thoughtfully. "There's witches' blood in that family." Howell did not doubt his tutor's information; she was easily the most knowledgeable person in Ingary regarding magical bloodlines. It was just that Hatter was such a common name, he couldn't help but say so.

"But there must be hundreds of Hatters in Kingsbury alone. Surely they're not _all_ witches," he chuckled. "One might never buy a hat which did not possess some glamour or other."

Mrs. Pentstemmon gave him a withering look for talking back as well as mistrusting her instinct, cardinal sins both. "Hubris is the worst handicap of a truly gifted magician, Howell. Underestimating those with subtler gifts than your own could prove to be a critical mistake for you. I've always warned you lack a proper respect for low magic."

Howell held up his hands in surrender. "My deepest apologies if I appeared in any way disrespectful of your expertise. But truly, it's against the laws of genetics for _every_ Hatter to be a witch." He did not mention that her own sister happened to be a fairly powerful one. Howell could just not believe Sophie was magically gifted in any way. If she were, he felt certain he would have been turned into a soup ladle by now.

The expression on Mrs. Pentstemmon's face told exactly what she thought of the laws of genetics verses her intuition. "I merely mention the possibility. If that were the case, it might certainly explain why your attempts to remove the curse have failed." Howell did not have to ask how she'd known that bit. "Of course, if you bring her to me, I shall be able to tell you once and for all." Mrs. Pentstemmon's tone and expression seemed to imply he had been remiss in not having done so before now.

"I'd like nothing better," Howell smiled, replacing the Queen of Clubs in the spread on the tray. "In fact, that was exactly what I had come to ask. If you could possibly find the time to see her for one of your famous interviews—"

"You would like to know if I approve of your choice in a wife," Mrs. Pentstemmon broke in with a knowing smile. "Bring her tomorrow, and I shall see what advice I might offer."

Howell beamed, already feeling the burden of his failed attempts beginning to lift. "Wonderful!" But his excitement was curbed as a particular thought struck him. "Er, though I feel I should warn you, she's rather…"

"Unrefined?" she finished for him. "Hardly surprising with a name like Hatter." This made Howell wince vaguely, discomfited by the fact his own surname was even more common.

"Actually," he said, "I was thinking to prepare you for her appearance. Due to the nature of the curse, well…I've told her I shall be escorting her to see the King, to speak to him in lieu of my old mother."

"And what reason have you for deceiving Rolland in this fashion?" Mrs. Pentstemmon asked, critically.

"Oh," Howell laughed nervously, finally beginning to buckle under the intensity of her gaze. "We shan't be going to see the King _really_."

Mrs. Pentstemmon's eyes became even more sharp. "Why not simply be honest, then?"

Howell smiled, amused. "Because she still has not been honest with _me_ regarding her true age. And I could hardly introduce her to you as my cleaning lady."

"Cleaning lady!" she declared, incensed. "I cannot approve of this, Howell."

Calmly, he put up a hand to prevent her lecturing him. "I assure you, that was not by my choice. I would very much have liked to offer her refuge free of pretence. But, alas." Howell looked tragic.

"You've always had noble instincts." He sat up a little straighter in his chair. "But without a backbone of morality to support them, they will come to nothing." She shook her head regretfully. "I do not condone all of this unnecessary subterfuge. But I will meet this Sophie of yours and have a little talk with her."

Howell rose from his seat and bowed, his face hot, stung by her unforgiving words. Mrs. Pentstemmon had never pulled her punches. "You do us a great honour, Mrs. Pentstemmon." He took one of her cold claws and kissed it once more. "As always, your generosity and forbearance are unmatched."

"Cheeky," she warned, giving him a look which foretold of an ear-tweaking, if he was not careful. "Ten hours tomorrow, and not a minute later."

Howell bowed again. "Naturally."

At this indication that their interview had drawn to a close, Mrs. Pentstemmon sagged against her pillows, looking tired and old. "You may leave me now."

Howell couldn't help but hesitate. "Mrs. Pentstemmon, is there…anything I might do?"

"No, child," she told him, opening weary eyes. "Even you cannot cheat Death. And, at this point in my life, I have no wish to do so."

As Howell had no heart, it must have been his liver which rose into his throat, creating a painful lump. "But not quite yet," he said, half trying to create some levity, half in desperation.

"No, not quite." Mrs. Pentstemmon sighed, closing her eyes once more. "But now, I must rest."

"Of course." Howell bowed again, even though she could not see him do it, and turned to go. Hunch opened the door before he could even reach for the handle, striding swiftly past him to the bedside where he took away the tray and made Mrs. Pentstemmon more comfortable. It felt intrusive to stay any longer; Howell showed himself out. He tried not to think about the frail figure he had left behind, so unlike the tutor he'd known. As he stepped out onto the street, Howell looked up at the big picture window on the second story and wished her health with all his heart. Age was simply no excuse to die, in Howell's opinion. The whole topic hit far too close to home, given recent events. Taking comfort in the fact he had managed to enlist Mrs. Pentstemmon's aid and that she had not seem to disapprove of Sophie yet, Howell made his way to the Palace.

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**Author's Notes:** The poem Howl quotes is "The Sun Rising," by John Donne. Howl mistakes it for Sir Walter Raleigh just as he mistakes "Song" – which is also by Donne – for Raleigh in the book. Before you go thinking I'm cool, DWJ herself has Howl paraphrasing a line from "The Sun Rising" to Sophie in chapter 10 of _HMC_ (many many thanks to myfriend Ro for pointing this out to me a while back). We'll get there, and hopefully it will become a bit more clear.

The "suicide king" is one of the names for the King of Hearts. If you look at a plain deck of cards, you'll see why. I thought this card was very appropriate to stand for Howl, but it can stand for an aspect of Sophie, as well. I'm not going to lay out the meaning behind each of the cards Mrs. Pentstemmon drew or why I chose the ones I did. Partly it's obvious, and partly the reasons you will come up with on your own will be at least as good as mine, so have at it.

This is the first of at least two chapters I will need to cover the events which occur in chapter 10 of _HMC_. Please be patient, we will get to chapter 11 soon enough, and like chapter 8, I think it will be worth your wait.


	16. Of Traps and Trappings

**Characters this chapter:** Howl, King Rolland of Ingary, the Princess Valeria

**Rating:** T

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 16: **_Of Traps and Trappings_

Arriving at the Grande Stair for the second time in a week, Howell decided that, as a gesture of good will and the first step in his effort to postpone a slouch toward villainy, he would enter the Palace like all of the plebeians, by conventional means. To his relief after having dealt with the boorish stand-in Captain Long last time, the Junior Captain of the Guard was on duty today. Opposed to the way Long had run the watch, the Junior Captain stood at the bottom of the Staircase, personally manning the first line of defense. Howell moved to greet him. "Cecil," he said, bowing. "Good morning to you." Showing the strict sort of soldier he was, the Captain acknowledged him with only a short nod, remaining at rigid attention.

"Wizard Pendragon. The King is expecting you." He goose-stepped out of formation and escorted Howell up the 313 stairs.

Howell was always amused by the difference between Cecil on duty and off. They had known one another since before he'd been promoted to Captain. When Howell had needed a break from Court intrigue and scandal in the old days, he would sneak away to spend time among the lower-downs in the Palace. Though he would never have admitted it, they were much more his sort of people than the stuffy nobility and wealthy upper crust working hard all day at doing nothing in the royal salons. Howell felt infinitely more comfortable around the serving class than he did nancing about at Court. But having philosophical conversations with the Palace staff was no way to climb the social ladder.

Howell's forays back down the ladder were his dirty little secret, but he couldn't give them up. They had been necessary to maintain his sanity in an alien social stratus in a foreign country in a universe so far from home. He had first struck up a conversation with Cecil because the young soldier reminded him of one of his old rugby club chums, and they had hit it off rather well. Drinking contests were one of their favourite pastimes.

"Lovely weather we're having." Howell couldn't resist teasing him as they proceeded up the Grande Stair, knowing it was against regulations for the Captain to exchange pleasantries while on duty. Cecil merely nodded. Howell smiled mischievously to himself and brought out the secret weapon question, the one most likely to cause the soldier to break his strict façade and rules. "So, when are we going drinking again?"

The straight line of the young Captain's lips pressing together belied a suppressed smile. "Whenever you're in the city not on business, you great fop." There was a good-natured twinkle in his eye as he answered surreptitiously out one side of his mouth.

"Then we shall call it a date!" Grinning, victorious, Howell played up the assigned role, using his stage voice and gesturing grandly in order to make a spectacle of himself. The burgundy creeping into Cecil's cheeks was less a sign of embarrassment than it was one of anger. Howell had learned this the hard way one night when he'd suddenly found himself on the receiving end of the younger man's temper. As much as he enjoyed being irritating, Howell tried not to go too far with those he considered friends (far too easy to lose them that way). Cecil shot him a warning glare, and he remained contritely silent for the rest of their trek.

By the time they reached the top step, Howell seemed to have been forgiven. Leaving him in the hands of the first clerk in red, the Junior Captain bowed. "Just send word when you're free." A discreet grin to show that things were all right between them flickered on his face, there and gone almost too quickly to catch.

Howell smiled back. "Soon."

Then began the long, tedious process of being handed into the castle clerk by clerk, vestibule by vestibule. He attempted to stave off boredom by winking at the various women clerks he passed and seeing just how flustered he could make them before they let him pass to the next archway. By the time he'd reached the stair to the Royal Apartments, Howell had collected in writing several names and addresses, along with two indecent proposals. He tucked them into his pocket to pass on to Cecil when they next met.

Handed upstairs, Howell was finally deposited in a small library with a fire burning cheerfully at one end, in spite of the fact it was over 34 degrees outside. The King was nowhere to be seen, so he assumed he was to wait while royal business was concluded elsewhere. This was fine with him, as Howell was quite fond of books and curious to see what rare gems might have been tucked away in this auxiliary library. He took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light provided by the fire and a single long, narrow stained glass window. Then he went to the nearest bookcase to peruse the titles. Howell had just selected _A Sorcerer's History of Ingary_, by Lady Moira Pentstemmon, when a ghostly giggle echoed round the room. He froze, carefully extending his sixth sense like a blind man feeling along a wall, searching for any deceased persons in the immediate vicinity. Finding none, Howell turned around slowly, his eyes searching the shadows of the room for his companion.

As he was looking, there came a cheerful sort of chirping noise, followed by another giggle. This time, Howell was able to pinpoint the location of the noise before the odd acoustics took it up and bounced it around the room. He walked stealthily toward a claw-footed mahogany table which had been shoved up against one wall. In one swift motion, he bent down and peered underneath. The Princess Valeria's eyes opened wide at the sudden sight of him, and the stylus on which she'd been gnawing fell out of her startled little mouth. _"O! Cariad!"_ Howell exclaimed, clapping hands to his cheeks in exaggerated surprise. It was automatic to lapse back into Welsh when addressing the tiny Princess. The last time he had had the opportunity to entertain a child her age was when Mari had been learning to walk. _"Beth yw oed neud yna?"_

Recognising her playmate of the other day, Valeria flashed him a wide, gummy smile and abandoned her unsafe chewtoy in favour of crawling to Howell at top speed. "Were you hiding under there? _O, mae cariad yn chwarae mig."_

The Princess arrived at his ankles and sat back to give Howell a curious look, clearly wondering what he meant by these strange words that kept falling from his mouth. "Poor cariad," he said. "I can see your education has been sadly neglected. Your uncle Howell will have to teach you some _Cymraeg_."

Hearing him switch back to Inglish seemed to be all she was waiting for. Valeria smiled up at him and raised her arms in children's universal sign language for "Pick me up, tall person." She punctuated it with a coherent little order of, "Up!"

Howell smiled, completely charmed. "How could _anyone_ say no to that?" He whisked her up and settled her expertly on his hip.

The Princess seemed quite content with this arrangement. "Aa-oo!"

"You're very welcome," Howell replied. Holding her, he looked about the room at all the trouble she might have got into left without supervision, his eyes flicking to the fire, the open hearth at floor level that she might have just crawled into. "I can't say I think much of a King who leaves his child alone in a room full of potentially hazardous objects simply because he has business elsewhere."

"Daa?" Valeria asked, having understood at least something of what he'd said.

"Yes," Howell replied. "He deserves a spanking, as far as I'm concerned. And I don't support corporal punishment, as a general rule." This was likely a side-effect of all the hidings he'd earned in his youth. The Princess thoughtfully stuck four fingers in her mouth at once, halting conversation between them for some time.

As Howell walked her about the room, jogging her on his hip, he began to point out certain items, giving their Welsh names. "_Llyfr,"_ he said, tapping the cover of Mrs. Pentstemmon's volume of history. "Book." He picked up one of the sheets of stationery on the writing desk as they passed. _"Papur."_ He crumpled it in his hand, crackling it at her until she smiled and shoved his hand away from her ear. "Paper."

_"Aelwyd,"_ he told her, as they approached the fire. "Hearth." He pointed at the crackling flames within and knelt down with her to feel the heat of them. _"Tân_. Fire." But as he'd leaned forward, something more interesting had caught her eye. Enthralled, Valeria reached for the tantalisingly dangling earring, her chubby arm darting out almost too fast for Howell to catch while his earlobe was still intact. "O, cariad wants the shiny." Letting go her sticky little fist for a moment, he unhooked the ruby teardrop and handed it to her. Predictably, the first thing she did was shove it into her mouth – or at least, she tried. Howell had anticipated this and enchanted the jewel appropriately. The moment it reached her lips, it expanded to ten times its size, its texture transforming from faceted gemstone to something rubbery and good for teething on. Valeria looked rather startled at first, but soon set about happily gumming it.

"You're a woman of taste, I see." Howell stood and began to pace the room, chatting amicably to her. "I obtained that ruby from one of the Sultans of Rashpuht, and I'm not ashamed to tell you it did not come cheaply." The Princess was watching him with some measure of fascination as he spoke, the aforementioned ruby protruding from her mouth. "But have no fear, cariad. You'll have many many shinies of your own just so soon as you're old enough not to want to chew on them any longer." He smiled down at her, fond, and Valeria removed the jewel from her mouth in order to smile back. Then she seemed to remember her manners.

"Aa sah?" The Princess offered him a taste of her new toy.

"Oh, no thank you. I just ate breakfast not too long ago." Tired of walking round and round the small room waiting for the King to remember either his appointment or the child he'd abandoned, Howell found a nice, comfortable reading chair and settled Valeria in his lap as he got comfortable. He watched her entertaining herself with his earring for a few moments before the overwhelming urge one has to kiss the peach fuzz atop a baby's head got the better of him. He smoothed the soft, translucent hairs back into place, contemplating an odd quality to the usual hollow feeling of his chest. There were days his arms nearly ached to hold a baby again. Mari had grown far too quickly. Perhaps it was just his biological clock telling him it was time to settle down.

Valeria seemed to sense the change in his mood. Removing the earring from her mouth, she looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. Then, pointing at the chair behind him, she said very clearly, "Ca-dah."

Howell's eyebrows shot up in surprise. It was one of the first words he'd taught her just a few minutes ago. _"Cadair?_ That's right, cariad! _Rhyfeddol!_ " He lifted her up over his head, and she squealed, terribly proud of herself. "Who's a clever ickle birdie, then? _Pwy yw hi?_ I know!" He reached out and tapped her nose with his index finger. "Valeria. _Faleria_." Back in his lap, she giggled and reached out to wipe her sticky hands on his shirt ruffle. "Certainly not that ninny of a father who left you here all by yourself all afternoon." Not that Howell minded this impromptu babysitting a bit, but he did wonder what was keeping the King so long. Recovered from her short flight, the Princess popped the ruby back into her mouth and grinned at him as she chewed it. "Yes, that's right, isn't it?" Howell said. "Your father's a great oaf of a king, isn't he? A ninny pudding excuse for a king." Whether it was because she agreed with his statement, or that she found Howell terribly amusing in his own right, Valeria's grin widened to a smile. "Yes he is!" He leaned in to give her an Eskimo kiss. "Yes he is!"

Little Valeria's infant charm had bewitched Howell so thoroughly, he had stopped paying attention to their surroundings, and King Rolland had been gone for so long, he had ceased to look out for the King's arrival. This was a mistake. A throat cleared noisily from behind them, and Howell jumped, clutching the toddler to him so as not to drop her in his surprise. The King stood in the doorway looking both unamused and more puzzled than usual. Howell had been caught red-handed. He fumbled for words, his mind working desperately to dig himself out. Because holding the Princess might give the King the impression that he was trustworthy after all, Howell quickly thrust his arms out, leaving Valeria's chubby little feet dangling in midair. "Er…you seem to have dropped this, your Majesty. I was merely er – thought it prudent to retrieve it for you." He passed the Princess to the King much as he would have handed off a rugby ball during play.

Uncertain just how much King Rolland had overheard, Howell thought it best that he leave immediately. The level of his perturbation at having been blatantly caught caused his voice to rise to nearly a shout as he prepared to make his exit. "Well, now that's handled, I'm afraid I really must be going. All this waiting about has made me late for a previous engagement, therefore, if you'll excuse me—" He rushed through this little speech in a single breath, going too quickly for the King to interrupt. But as Howell tendered a departing bow, King Rolland cut in.

"Just a moment, Pendragon." He froze in mid-bow, grimacing at the floor and cursing his wretched luck. "You're forgetting something." Howell's transformed earring was thrust under his nose. His brow furrowed suspiciously. Just how long **had** the King been watching? For a moment as he looked up, Howell's awkwardness disappeared, and the mask of courtly civility slipped away as cunning green eyes searched King Rolland's deceptively vague brown eyes for any signs of cleverness or duplicity. Finding none, his courtly manners and smile were back in place just as quickly.

"Why, not at all, Sire." Howell's costly, exotic ruby was suddenly a rubber duck. "A gift for the Princess." The King stared down at the bath toy he was now holding, looking even more perplexed. Howell snatched it out of his hand and gave it a squeak before handing it back to Valeria. She chattered happily to it in her secret language before inserting it back between mostly-toothless gums. He bowed and attempted to make his escape once more. "I remain, as ever, at Your Majesty's service." As he complied with the bare essentials of formality, Howell subtly reached behind him for the door handle. But just as his hand made contact, King Rolland spoke up and again stalled his departure.

"We thank you. And as you have shown us your worth today, as on previous occasions, we would like to appoint you Royal Magician…" He paused as Howell's face went blue from lack of air. "…in charge of returning Prince Justin." Being appointed a single task was not the same as being named Sullivan's replacement, and Howell began to breathe again. But he still felt wary. If he hadn't know better, Howell would have thought the King was up to something.

Still he responded with all the courtesy demanded by protocol, "What an honour, Sire!" only just managing to keep his suspicion and anger at having been caught off-guard out of his voice. "One may only hope I prove worthy of your faith in me." He bowed with a graceful flourish. But the King was not yet done with him.

"And if, upon your travels, you should happen to locate Wizard Suliman, or come in contact with the Witch of the Waste and do away with her, we would be most grateful." Howell clenched his jaw and ground his teeth as it became increasingly tempting to tell King Rolland just what he could do with his royal appointments.

But what actually passed his lips was a rather strained but polite, "Of _course_, Your Majesty."

"And if you succeed at any of these tasks, you may consider this position permanent." He could not have given Howell a better reason to fail. Seeing it would be so easy to avoid that which he dreaded brightened his spirits somewhat, and the ensuing bow and smile Howell offered were more genuine, but not for the reasons the King might have guessed.

"I shall not fail, Sire," he lied.

"Good, good." King Rolland wasn't even looking at him anymore, instead gazing thoughtfully at his daughter. "You may leave us." Free at last, Howell's barely-contained rage made the door handle malleable in his grip, and his fingers left indentations in the brass which remained the next morning, puzzling the Palace staff. The only thing that prevented him slamming the door as he left was an adorable parting wave from Princess Valeria. "Dye!" she called to him as he left, but even this could not cure his black mood.

Howell strode down the corridor, the clack clack clack of his boots on the polished marble floor the only accompaniment to the symphony of ire seething within him. The blue-dressed guards and attendants were careful not to look at him as he passed, his aura of rage crackling around him like an invisible thunderstorm. Howell felt used and humiliated. He'd been tricked. But how? **How** had that millet-brained, doughy-faced excuse for a monarch got the better of him, the cleverest man in Ingary? There was only one way it could ever have happened: Howell's kind nature had been used against him, the soft heart he worked so hard to hide, he'd given it away. Somehow, someone had uncovered his third Great Weakness, children, and used it to make him vulnerable, to trap him. Howell refused to believe that King Rolland could have been so clever. He must have been advised by someone, but who? No one in the Palace could have known of Howell's third Weakness; he was very careful about maintaining his Courtly persona in Kingsbury.

Though he had come to the Palace this morning with the intention of receiving the royal appointment to locate Prince Justin, Howell had changed his mind. This crime of trickery that had just been perpetrated against him completely nullified what noble and beneficent intentions he may have had. They had stripped him bare, forcing Howell to make a fool of himself in front of the biggest fool in Ingary, and causing him to reveal things about himself, his true self, which should have remained secret. He was not about to take this underhanded treatment. Even Howell himself would not have stooped so low. As of this moment, all bets were off; his encroaching villainy be damned. What had just been perpetrated against him was a declaration of war, and Howell would rise to the challenge; he would bring out the big guns. Tomorrow, he would bring Sophie to the Palace to blacken his name to the King as he'd originally intended. If _she_ couldn't show King Rolland the error of his ways, tricking Howell into giving him what he wanted, no one could.

Before leaving the Palace, he used magic to send a letter to the King, informing him that Wizard Pendragon's mother would be coming to see him. No doubt he would assume it was to give thanks for the generosity King Rolland had recently shown her son. Then, because he did not know whom precisely he had to thank for advising the King to take advantage of his kind nature, Howell turned _all_ of the bath tissue in _all_ of the wash closets in the Palace to fly paper. He had always been a great believer in sharing both wealth and misery.

Out on the street, Howell could think of only two things which might have any chance of quelling the storm which raged inside him. As Sophie was currently much more likely to club him with a blunt object than return a kiss should he attempt his first choice, Howell opted for his second choice, shopping. He began by visiting all of his favourite stores. As soon as he entered, the clerks rushed to assist him, knowing his extravagant spending habits by now. The fuss they made over him did Howell some good. He made certain to try out several things -- or rather have the store clerks dress him in several different things -- before he left each without making a purchase. This was unheard of for Howell, and he left a crowd of bemused clerks in his wake.

But the shop which proved the most challenging to his willpower against spending money on himself was the cordwainer's. They had a pair of pointed-toed shoes with elegant wedge-shaped heels a full inch high and shiny silver buckles that were simply shouting his name, begging him to take them home in place of the pair the Princess had ruined the other day. Howell managed to resist, but only just. He had to remind himself several times this shopping trip had a purpose other than pleasing himself for once. He had to find appropriate clothes in which Michael and Sophie could appear before Mrs. Pentstemmon. And now there was the added burden of going to the Palace, as well. He would have to take extra special care in choosing their ensembles, lest news of the tiniest fashion faux pas get back to Court and he be crucified by association. More important, however, was the good impression he wished to make on his old tutor. Howell would never live down that horrid grey sack Sophie was hobbling about in now; Mrs. Pentstemmon would disown him if she knew how he was keeping his future bride.

Because Sophie's ensemble would require the most thought and effort, Howell first sought out a livery clothier in order to find an appropriate page's uniform for Michael. The samples they kept in the shop were ghastly, from the painful colour combinations they had chosen to the outdated design of the uniforms themselves. They weren't even fit for costumes, as far as Howell was concerned, and he was ashamed to show his face in such an establishment. Surely no member of the nobility would; they had their livery custom-made. He would simply have to do the same.

Fleeing to his tailor's, Howell chose a sumptuous plum velvet fabric and ordered Michael's suit ready by evening. His tailor was brilliant and gifted, but not very well known among the elite of Kingsbury. Howell alone had brought him enough custom over the years that he was persuaded to put aside his other tasks and fulfill the Wizard's outrageous request -- for a nominal fee of twice the usual price. He had the money to burn, and he was certain Michael would have outgrown his old suit by now even if it weren't so worn and out of fashion as it was. Howell considered it an investment in his apprentice's future as well as one necessary to uphold his own reputation.

Leaving the tailor and his apprentices scrambling to fulfill his order, he made his way to the ladies' quarter of the garment district. Thanks to the morning he'd wasted earlier in the week, Howell knew just where to go. Shopping for Sophie brightened his mood quite a bit, but it was not until he reached the special dressmaker's which sold only ladies' undergarments that Howell felt cheerful enough again to flirt with the salesgirls. Not surprisingly, this came very naturally while purchasing silk stockings and handmade imported lace garters. It was quite scandalous enough for him to have even entered such an establishment, much less drop a handful of gold coins there in purchases. When Howell found himself with a rapt female audience of customers and shop employees as he made his selections, he took full advantage of it. Two of the older and more bold dressmaker's apprentices kept trying to guess for whom he was buying these items, his wife or his mistress. Howell made a game of keeping them guessing by giving answers that were not at all informative but nevertheless intriguing. It caused quite an uproar among the crowd of women gathered when he chose the most extravagant and decorous petticoats in the shop, asking for not one set but two. As Howell left with his stack of parcels, he flashed his audience one of his dazzling movie star smiles and was gratified when several of them swooned as the door shut behind him.

For his own part, Howell was at least as enthusiastic about his purchases as his jealous audience had been. Thoughts of what Sophie would look like in them once Mrs. Pentstemmon had helped him get the curse off fairly blinded him. Howell caught himself stroking the box of stockings as he meandered, half-dazed down the street, and pulled himself together. He went straight to the lace-maker's, thinking that buying a shawl for Sophie should help remind him that she was currently a woman of age and respectability, not a fiery-tempered, ginger-haired beauty to whom he could return in the middle of the day and cajole into modeling his recent purchases so that he might admire them on her.

At the lace-maker's, he found a needle lace shawl so intricate, the complex patterns interlocking so perfectly, Howell immediately fell in love with it. The ingenious layering of the design made him think of Sophie, and he had to have it. Naturally, it was the most expensive lace in the shop. Howell purchased it on the spot in spite of the fact it cost half of his remaining gold pieces. As the clerk was wrapping it for him, he inquired whether there was a dressmaker they particularly recommended. He was not surprised when this led him to the shop Mrs. Pentstemmon herself used when her personal dressmaker was unavailable.

All of the gowns inside were aimed at respectable (and very wealthy) ladies of mature years. Knowing Sophie and what she might be persuaded to wear, Howell made straight for the plainest, most understated dress they had. As if fate had decreed it was meant for her, it was grey -- not a colour he felt suited Sophie, but one she was clearly comfortable wearing. As it put him in mind of their first meeting, thus appealing to his romantic spirit, Howell gave in. But when he paid for it, he inquired whether some lace trim might be added to dress it up a bit. He brought out the shawl to show them what he had in mind, and was thrilled when they brought out a length of lace which matched it exactly.

While a seamstress made the plain dress passable by Howell's standards, he went to the very fashionable ladies' shoemaker overlooking Royal Square and spent hours pouring over footwear. One of the last pair the exasperated clerk presented to him was a pair of dove grey calf-length boots cleverly engineered to stretch so that they would conform to the shape of the woman's leg. Howell was nearly beside himself as he envisioned how the suede would cling to Sophie's calves. Naturally, this was pure fantasy, as he had not seen Sophie's legs when they'd first met, and their current state was somewhat less than desirable, being old, bony, and covered in varicose veins. But Howell had never let mere fact stand in his way.

When he came back to himself, Howell told the clerk he would take them, but first he had to aggravate the shop's staff further by worrying over the size. Carefully, he examined each of the clerks' feet in turn, attempting to hazard a guess as to whose were the closest in size to Sophie's. Finally, Howell chose the shoemaker's tall, awkward daughter, who evidenced signs of growing into a slender swan in a few years. He purchased boots to fit her feet and finally left to a chorus of relieved sighs. Howell vowed to return whenever he bought shoes for Sophie. Making a great nuisance of himself now and again appealed to his perverse sense of humour.

With plenty of time left before he was due to pick up his purchases from the tailor's and dressmaker's, Howell stopped at a popular bistro for tea. It had been ages since he'd had a proper tea, and he made the most of it, spending his last silver piece on a pot of the special spiced black tea imported from the Sultanates of Rashpuht and half a luscious chocolate cake. After taking his time consuming all of it, he felt somewhat civilised again.

His stomach full and mind temporarily emptied of vengeful thoughts against the King, Howell retrieved his purchases and made his way home laden with smartly-wrapped parcels. For the first time ever, none of them were for him; Howell felt painfully generous.

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**Author's Notes:** A silly amount of research went into some of the teensie things no one will notice. Crazy.

In the next chapter, Howl will take Sophie and Michael to Wales. Really. I promise.

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**Translations of the Welsh:**

_Cariad_ - sweetheart/love

_Beth yw oed neud yna?_ - What are (you) doing there?

_O, mae cariad yn chwarae mig._ - Oh, cariad is playing hide-and-seek.

_Cymraeg_ - Welsh (the language)

_Cadair_ - chair

_Rhyfeddol!_ - Wonderful!

_Pwy yw hi?_ - Who is (she)?

Also _"Faleria"_ is pronounced exactly the same as "Valeria." I used the Welsh spelling to show that Howl is still in Welsh-mode, jumping back and forth between Welsh and Inglish. There's an accent and a lilt that creeps out into his English speech when he does this, but that's too difficult to duplicate in text.

As always, if I've left out a mutation or flubbed the grammar and someone more proficient in Welsh than I am comes along, please do point out my mistake.


	17. In which Sophie comes home with Howell

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Sophie, Michael, Calcifer, Megan, Mari, and Neil Parry

**Rating: **T

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**A Woman True and Fair **

**Chapter 17: **_In which Sophie comes to a familiar country to satisfy her nosiness _

Walking home through the streets of Kingsbury took him longer than it should have. Howell could barely see over the tower of parcels he'd acquired for Michael and Sophie's benefit. Because of this, he had to proceed much more slowly than his usual long-legged stride. It made him feel like a beast of burden. Howell was aggravated to realise he did not have so much as a two-penny bit left with which to pay one of the gangly street urchins to carry the packages for him. This only added to his feeling of being put-upon. Such hard work this was, being generous. By the time Howell reached his front door, he felt simply martyred.

It did not help that there was no one attending to his entrance to feel sorry for him. As Howell pushed the door open with shoulder and elbow, struggling not to drop the precariously-balanced parcels, Sophie and Michael were laughing and carrying on and having a grand old time without him. All right, perhaps Sophie was not the one laughing. All the same, when he looked up and saw her smiling a bit sheepishly at Michael, her eyes twinkling with amusement, her cheeks rosy with mirth or embarrassment or pleasure or something else that did not involve Howell in the least, he felt jealous as well as put-upon and neglected.

What a horrible day this had been for him. Tricked by that buffoon of a king, wasting all of his hard-earned money on others, and now ignored in his own home. Howell was beginning to think another temper tantrum might be in order. But he decided to give his patchwork family one chance to redeem themselves before he let loose. Closing the door by backing up against it-- his only choice due to the mountain of parcels he was labouring under -- Howell made a loud declaration on the state of things, intent on guilting attention out of them if they would not give it freely.

They reacted beautifully with the exception Calcifer, who replied with his usual rational inconsideration. But at least the fire demon had acknowledged Howell's existence. Because Sophie's reaction was the best, having asked him what was wrong, Howell gladly focused on her. In answer to her question, he gave the shortened (and less humiliating) version of what the King had done to him, adding on a bit more guilt at the end for their having dared enjoy themselves while he was suffering. To Howell's delight, his words prompted a further reaction from Sophie, who rushed to put away her sewing so that she might console him in her usual manner of cleaning woman and cook. Howell was both touched and annoyed by her response. Would she never grow out of this compulsion to serve? Why couldn't Sophie understand that toast was of no use to Howell under these circumstances, when a warm embrace and perhaps a brief kiss would have done wonders for raising his spirits? But it was far too soon to hope for anything of that ilk from Sophie.

All the same, Howell was disappointed, and he pouted and sullenly scolded her for the pathetic offer of toast in his time of need. Stopping her from getting up and rushing to serve him, he walked over to the hearth and prefaced his gift-giving by laying even more guilt on her regarding the effort he had gone through to carry all of the parcels home single-handedly. In return for this supreme sacrifice, Howell demanded she at least pay attention to him as he poured parcels into her lap. If nothing else, the weight of them would prevent Sophie from leaping up into another one of her episodes of manic servility. He kept hold of the medium-sized parcel, which he thrust in Michael's direction without bothering to look. Howell was far too intent on watching Sophie open her gifts; he needed to know what she thought of them like a drowning man needs air.

Sophie looked suitably impressed by all of his choices, and Howell's ego puffed up to twice its usual size. Preparing to encourage her to praise his taste aloud by asking how she liked them, he was distracted when Michael set up a caterwauling about his having spent all the money they'd lately received from the King. It was utterly predictable. Michael was still stuck in that peasant mindset where putting money aside was necessary for survival. Howell couldn't be cross with him; it was just the way he'd grown up. The furthest thing from selfish, his apprentice also protested his gift on the grounds that Howell needed a new suit more than he did, which was awfully thoughtful of him.

Howell peered down at the tattered remains of his best suit where it had been spread out on the floor in front of the hearth. Slipping the toe of his boot into a gaping hole that had once been beautiful hand-embroidered decorative braid, he lifted it up for a better look. Howell could see where Sophie had begun sewing pieces back in, but it would clearly not be wearable again any time soon. He responded to Michael's scolding by declaring aloud how generous he was for thinking of Michael before himself. Howell went on to explain the reasoning behind his generosity, turning back to include Sophie, who was stroking her new dress as if it were an exotic pet, and clinging to the rest of her parcels as if someone might take them from her should she dare let them go. The poor thing. Howell doubted anyone had ever spent so much money on her in one go. That was a travesty he vowed to put right on a regular basis.

He asked her if the boots sitting on the floor at her feet were the right size, still worried he might have guessed wrong. As soon as her rheumy eyes met his, the awed look of gratitude she'd been wearing disappeared, replaced by one of suspicion and her usual disagreeability. She questioned his motives in being so generous, then thanked him for her gifts and refused to see the King for him all in one breath. Howell was furious, but also somewhat flummoxed by his own reaction to her hot and cold treatment of him. How was it Sophie could both caress and slap him in a single sentence? Because he dared not shove her up against a wall and repay her in the manner he had treated Lettie two days ago, Howell exorcised his pent-up frustration by raging against her impudence, flinging his arms out in the most dramatic manner possible. "What ingratitude! Let's have green slime again! After which I shall be forced to move the castle a thousand miles away and never see my lovely Lettie again!"

A curious exchange took place then between Sophie and Michael. Perhaps his apprentice was encouraging her to behave. If so, Howell would have to thank him for it at some point. Whatever it was, though Sophie looked decidedly unhappy about it, it seemed she was steeling herself to comply. Reminding Howell of his manners, that he had not yet asked her properly to see the King on his behalf, Sophie implied, though unwillingly, that when he did, she would agree. Of course, this begged Howell's perversity _not _to ask her properly. Instead, he flashed Sophie that special smile in his arsenal which was known for turning 'no's into 'yes'es, and repeated aloud his presumption that she _would _see the King for him, putting it in the form of a question which left Sophie no room to refuse.

When she agreed, Howell told her how it was all going to work, and began to lay out precisely what it was she was going to say to the King tomorrow. Now that they were no longer fighting, Howell gave in to the burning need to be closer to her, sitting down on the stool next to Sophie's chair which Michael had recently vacated. At first, his main concern was to plot out the best way to manipulate the King. Howell explained the plan carefully, backtracking to revise and update it as further detail and nuance occurred to him. As he spoke, Howell looked earnestly into Sophie's eyes. This brought him to two important realisations: first, her eyes hid a hint of green just around the pupils, as if eternal spring lurked, just barely restrained, in their depths, and second, this was the first time they had ever been in such close proximity, looking directly at one another without getting in an argument. Howell's erratic heartbeat caused Calcifer's fire to flicker and pulse as he began to lose himself in the hidden depths of Sophie's eyes. He was still speaking to her in a casual, attentive manner, his mind working at how best to put things to the King, but it was as if part of Howell had completely detached to focus on Sophie. He wanted to reach out and take her hand. He probably could have got away with it if she hadn't still been clutching her parcels for dear life.

Like a buzzing mosquito, Michael kept trying to interrupt their magic moment. Howell put him off again and again, determined not to let his irritation get the better of him. He might have easily lost his train of thought if he had not already fallen off between stops. Howell could tell from the vague, longsuffering expression on Sophie's face that she was not listening to a word he was saying. He hoped it was for the same reason he was no longer listening to himself. But knowing Sophie, it was far more likely she was considering what to make for dinner or when she might next give the bathtub a good scrubbing. Still, Howell thought, one day they _would _be on the same page. It was a day he both hoped for with all his heartlessness and secretly dreaded.

At last, he realised he'd run out of things to say and might as well stop speaking as neither of them was paying attention anyway. But before doing so, Howell cleverly slipped in that they would be paying a visit to Mrs. Pentstemmon before they went to the Palace. He congratulated himself on making it sound like a spur of the moment idea, concocted solely for her benefit. Then he quickly turned to answer Michael's burning question before Sophie could recover enough from her boredom to object to the visit.

His apprentice was beside himself with frustration. He flapped an unfamiliar piece of paper around and spoke almost too quickly for Howell to make out the individual words. "Wellyousee, it'sjustI've tried _everything _withthespellyougaveme, andIjustcan'tgetitto _work_. I really have_tried _this time, Howl. YoucanaskSophie, shewasthere. I workedfordaysand _days_, andI **still **can't do it. Ididn'twanttohavetoaskyour help again, butit'scompletelyimpossibletodo!"

Howell had a hard time believing the simple enlargement spell had given Michael so much trouble, but perhaps he had just made another one of his simple beginner's errors. Taking the spell from him, Howell calmly smoothed the crumpled paper between thumb and forefinger and asked in a gentle, uncritical tone -- for he could see Michael was frustrated to the point he was ready to call himself stupid again – what line had given him trouble. But when he glanced down at the page, Howell was very surprised to find it was not the spell he was holding after all. This piece of paper was mass-produced wood pulp, not the hand-pressed parchment he used in Ingary. Instead of his own illegible overeducated handwriting, carefully-typed words marched down the page in neat rows. It was the first verse of a poem, or more accurately, an English homework based on the first verse of a poem. From his world.

Just as Michael began to explain just what he had done to perform this spell, Howell interrupted. "Great gods above!" He very nearly burst out laughing to think that his poor apprentice had been attempting to do a poem instead of a spell, but he curbed the urge, not wishing to make Michael feel any worse than he did already. Instead, he explained that it was not a spell at all and asked Michael where he'd found the paper. Howell was 93 certain no such homework had ever wandered into Ingary among his belongings from Wales.

When Michael said he'd found it on the workbench amongst the heap of clutter Sophie had disarranged, Howell began to worry. Yes, there were a great many things piled there, but each had arrived on the workbench at some point or other by Howell's own hand. And this was not something he had put there. It was possible Sophie had unearthed it and placed it on the table in one of her mad cleaning fits. But if that were true, the original spell should still be there. Howell leapt up and dug through the jumbled mess on the workbench without luck. If the spell was not there, that meant it must have been switched for the homework from Wales. But in order for that to have happened, the castle door would have had to be opened with the black blob down.

There was absolutely no doubt in Howell's mind who was responsible. "Sophie strikes again." He sighed in frustration. "I might have known!" Having left Sophie in the castle with only Calcifer as chaperone appeared to have been even more dangerous than he'd first thought. "No, the proper spell's not here," he announced, abandoning the fruitless search. Once the door had been opened, it would have been a fairly simple matter for the homeworks to have traded places. A wish, even a stray thought might have done it. Yes, it was quite possible, especially if Howell's guess was correct, and this homework belonged to his thick-headed nephew. Neil was the sort of boy who could be counted on to wish his homework away.

Of course, the change-out might have been engineered intentionally by someone else all together. It was a distressing possibility Howell did not like to think about. Hoping against hope, Howell asked the skull politely--because it was important to be respectful when addressing the dead (he'd learned this the hard way early on in his magic tutelage)-- if perhaps _it _was that someone else who was to blame. After all, if the skull came from Wales, as he suspected, it was possible a post-mortem longing for the homeland might have caused the inter-dimensional shift to occur. As for other possibilities, Howell refused to think about them just yet.

Instead, he opted for addressing the door-opening culprit to see if he could wheedle a confession out of her, thus confirming the first half of his theory. And any excuse to harass Sophie was a good one, so far as Howell was concerned. He turned back to his captive audience, which was watching him from the hearth with apprehension. "Er-- Sophie dear..." Howell's smile lit up like a Christmas tree. He wanted to charm the confession out of her, if he could, or perhaps just to charm her. He wanted to speak aloud the endearments which were forever poised just on the tip of his tongue. It felt good to have let one slip out at last.

But the change in his manner had not gone unnoticed; Sophie looked suspicious. "What?"

Howell approached slowly, placing his feet carefully, just so, like a dancer, like an actor leading into his finest scene, like a hunter stalking his prey. Poetry sprang to his lips, and it was so appropriate in this instance, Howell could not restrain himself from giving it voice. "Busy old fool," he began, stepping round in front of her chair to look Sophie in the eyes before finishing the line. "Unruly Sophie." Howell's clever mind miles ahead, as always, continued to rewrite the poem to suit the occasion. _Why dost thou thus/ through unkind and through dour eyes look on us? _But he knew better than to recite poetry to Sophie.

She glared at him, thinking it an insult. _Unruly sun_. _His _unruly sun. It was true. She was his light, his warmth, his unrestrainable luminous heavenly body, his matron goddess of disaster. How could he not crown her with this title, inserting her into the poem that flitted through his mind each morning he laid eyes on her as if for the first time? But there was no way Sophie could have gotten the literary allusion to a poem which did not exist in this world. Inside, Howell roared with laughter at her piqued expression, the cleverness of his joke, the compliment so well camouflaged in insult. But he moved on with his questioning before she became uncooperative. Telling her of his suspicion concerning her having opened the door, Howell continued in the vein of couching compliment in insult by drawing attention to her prominent nose before he paused, giving Sophie the opportunity to either confirm or deny she had opened the door.

But the truth was, Howell quite liked Sophie's rather aquiline nose. His was not precisely what one might call weak, either. Welshmen had to learn to admire strong profiles or grow up hating themselves, forced to marry foreign women in hopes of sparing their children. As Howell admired no one's profile more than he did his own, he had come to like prominent noses of a certain calibre.

Sophie replied to his inquiry with an air of self-importance, as if she'd had every right to open that particular gateway. When she confessed that no more than her finger had gone through, Howell felt somewhat relieved. It was sure to have got back to Megan if any of the neighbours had spotted a disembodied head emerging from her front door. All the same, Howell was not about to let Sophie's sense of entitlement obscure her guilt. He reiterated her confession, verbally connecting what she had done to what had gone wrong with Michael's homework, so that they would understand. Then he drew their attention to the fact the piece of paper Michael had been working from did not remotely read as spells normally do. Howell found himself constantly explaining to others like this, things which were obvious to him. If nothing else in his life had, this would have proven to him he was an unparalleled genius.

Michael excused his lack of observation by saying that spells often read strangely to him, and inwardly, Howell shook his head. He feared his apprentice would never make much of a magician, in spite of the brilliance of his tutor. Perhaps he might get Michael established as village magician in some backwater hamlet one day. Howell dared not hope for better at this point. When Michael asked what the slip of paper actually contained, Howell held it up, his eyes flitting over the words once more. It was just the standard sort of rubbish English teachers had been assigning from time immemorial. He laughed derisively as he read the assignment over, exclaiming aloud at the pedantry of it all.

As obtuse as Sophie and Michael were being today, Howell decided the best way to explain it to them would be to show them the poem in its entirety. He rushed up to his room to retrieve a thick collection of classic poems he rarely touched these days, having already memorised all the ones contained therein which were suitable for influencing ladies. As he scanned his bookcase for the volume, the first stanza of "Song" repeated itself in his mind, and Howell began to wonder just what Michael had done in order to attempt to perform the non-spell._Go and catch a falling star._ Had Michael actually attempted that bit? Howell had only been listening with half an ear, still distracted by Sophie when his apprentice had first begun rambling about his troubles. But, now he thought of it, Howell thought Michael might have said something to that effect.

The book he was unable to find suddenly became much less important. Howell let it go, thundering back downstairs to discover if he'd heard Michael correctly. Fearing for his apprentice's kind heart, it was with a great deal of agitation Howell questioned him on the matter. When Michael confessed he had attempted to perform the first line literally but had been unsuccessful, Howell became convinced angels really did watch over fools and children. He was greatly relieved that his ward, at least, was still in possession of his own heart.

But when Sophie spoke up, commenting on the pathos of their failure, Howell immediately lost his temper. He could not help but raise his voice to give her what-for. She had been there with Michael and done nothing to stop him? No, of course she wouldn't have. It was much more like Sophie to have done her best to **help **Michael risk the loss of his immortal soul. Howell was livid with fear. If they'd caught that star, they would both have been in terrible danger. Those two with their gentle, self-sacrificing natures and not a drop of sense between them would surely have given both their hearts away. And, unlike Howell, they would probably not even have thought to ask anything in return. Just the thought of what could have happened frightened him to death. If anything showed Sophie's true age since she'd come to live with them, this did. It went beyond foolishness to blatant stupidity.

Upset with worry, Howell was just considering feeling guilty about raising his voice to Sophie when Calcifer butted in, pointing out his hypocrisy in bawling them out for doing something he himself had done. Already agitated, Howell began to tell Calcifer just how much he'd come to regret what he'd done that fateful night five years ago. But just before the words tumbled out of his mouth, he realised what a ghastly thing that would be to say. Howell did not regret saving Calcifer's life. He loved the fire demon like an annoying older brother, refused to even consider the thought of having allowed him to perish. Howell could not imagine what his life would have been like without Calcifer. But he did miss his heart. He missed the warmth it had once afforded him in his loneliness, even the shred of conscience it provided. Had he still been in possession of his heart, Howell was certain he never would have behaved so villainously to Lettie and Mrs. Fairfax the other day.

He swallowed his words and took several deep breaths through his nose, waiting to speak again until he felt in control once more. The first thing he did was turn back to Michael and make him swear never to attempt that particular feat again. The young man gave his word, apparently having no interest in trying a second time, and asked once more what the piece of paper really was. Howell looked down at it, somewhat surprised to see he still held it in his hand. As he began to explain, the lines repeated themselves again in his head, and the thoughts Howell had been trying to avoid of how exactly the homeworks had come to be switched would not be put off any longer.

He was telling them it was only the first verse when it hit him. Verse. Curse. A spell that was no spell at all. Howell gazed back at the paper with a suspicious sinking feeling. It seemed too coincidental that this particular poem, the first line of which hit far too close to home for him personally, should come to appear in the castle at just the right time to be mistaken for a spell by his kind but often dull-witted apprentice, who could be counted upon to actually attempt it as such, potentially getting himself into life-threatening danger in the process. Nevermind the star, what about the mermaids? They would certainly have drowned Michael as soon as he'd gotten within reach!

Howell felt a chill settle into the pit of his stomach. He could think of only one person who knew enough about both of them and was powerful enough, clever enough, and cruel enough to perpetrate such a crime. But if this really was Violet's curse catching up to him at last, Howell wanted to know precisely what his curse i _was /i _. He needed to see the rest of the poem. If he knew what the following lines were, perhaps he could think of a way to avoid his fate yet.

But much more importantly than saving his own skin, Howell needed to get to Wales immediately. If she had sent the spell from there, it meant she had found his Achilles Heel. And though he had left it there intentionally, partly in hopes of trapping her, Howell needed to know just what damage she had done in his home world. Either he or Calcifer would have known if she'd done anything directly to his family, but the fact she hadn't did not preclude her having done something indirectly. He had to go and see.

The book he'd been searching for must have been left behind in the bric-a-brac he'd yet to collect from his old room at Megan's. In spite of the risk it ran of crossing paths with Gareth at this hour, Howell needed that book, as well as a look round his sister's to satisfy him his family was all right. And a hug from Mari for good measure. Evading his surly brother-in-law was much less important just now.

He was at the castle door, black blob down, preparing to leave before he'd even finished thinking things through. Howell came out of his thoughts long enough to begin to tell Michael and Sophie he would be back, when it occurred to him there would be nothing preventing Sophie walking through the door after him once she saw it was quite safe to cross through the thin blanket of nothing he'd cast over the gateway. Sure enough, he turned to find both Michael and Sophie staring at him with burning curiosity and the look of a dog who has been told he may not accompany his master on a walk.

Howell sighed. He much preferred knowing where Sophie was than having to guess what trouble she might be getting into by following him, especially after what he had heard of her recent adventures with Michael. He said as much before telling them they could both come along. Howell was in no mood to act as though he were making the allowance out of generosity. Both of them had put him through the emotional wringer already, and his impending doom had not improved Howell's mood any. He had far too much to worry about just now than hurting their feelings.

Without another word, he opened the door and stepped through onto the front porch of Rivendell. None of the neighbours seemed to be about, which was a pleasant surprise. All the same, he turned back to check on the small illusion spell he had cast to make it look as if they were stepping onto the front porch _through _Megan's front door and not, as it truly was, _out_ _of _it. Michael came through next, and Howell motioned his apprentice to follow him down the walk to the garden gate. "What is this place, Howl?" he asked, looking up and down the street in wonder at the pathetically middle-class houses.

Howell replied simply, "It used to be home." He stopped and turned at the gate to watch the castle door expectantly for Sophie's appearance. After the comment he had made to her earlier, it was somewhat amusing that the first bit of her to emerge out of the nothingness was indeed her nose. Sophie stepped through and took her time looking round at everything in what was to her a strange new world. Howell sighed and summoned his keys as he waited for her to satisfy her compulsion to snoop. When she stepped back from the doorway and turned to examine the yellow brick of Megan's house as well, he ran out of patience, calling for her to join them in a tone snarky with agitation. She did so without a word of argument, and Howell was grateful that another row between them would not be necessary just yet.

He gave them a brief warning that their clothes would have to be changed to suit their new atmosphere before casting the spell. Howell's own transformation was easy enough, he just summoned up some of the old clothes he had put away. His ruffled shirt was changed for what had once been a white Oxford, rumpled from its time in storage. In exchange for his grey and scarlet suit, he conjured up his well-worn leisure suit with the eruditely patched elbows. Over the top, he summoned up his beloved rugby club jacket, which did a much better job of keeping out the pervasive mist and drizzle than his baggy suit jacket did. Besides, Howell never went anywhere in Wales without his rugby jacket.

Sophie's dress did not need much alteration, either. Howell was perhaps too pleased to make her skirt a bit shorter, and he thought her sleeves should be less puffy as well. Otherwise, her clothes remained the same. But there was nothing to be done with Michael's moth-eaten shirt and knee-breeches. Howell put him in a pair of bluejeans and sneakers with a stylish marshmallow jacket over the top to hide his shirt. Michael immediately complained of being forced into trousers that went all the way to the ankle, acting as if he would not be able to walk because of it. Howell assured him he would be fine and led the way back up to the house, ignoring the confused expressions of his companions.

As he unlocked the door, Howell caught Sophie nosing again, this time at the sign plate. To stop her doing any more, he ushered her through first with a firm hand placed in the small of her back. Howell watched her gazing round at the dingy hall as if it were as wondrous as Mrs. Pentstemmon's. He snorted at the thought and followed Michael through. Howell could hear the telly blaring from the sitting room, a sure sign that Mari had control of it. The one time he had complained to her of going deaf of _Dr. Snuggles_, she had explained to him that increased volume made telly more real, like she was there. Howell had smiled and accepted the four-year-old logic without further argument.

Trying to reassure himself that he would be greeted with the usual five o'clock scene in the Parry household, Howell opened the door to the sitting room. As Michael and Sophie peered curiously over his shoulders at the room beyond, Megan looked up and spoke his name as if a cockroach had just crawled into her mouth. She laid down her ever-present knitting and looked as though she were gathering herself to give him a good nagging for having dropped by without notice. Howell in kind prepared his retort on the nature of being made to feel welcome in the home of one's only family. But before battle could be joined, Mari came flying across the room, joyously shrieking and clamping herself round his legs and middle, as was their usual custom of greeting. Howell responded in turn, reaching down to give her a tight hug.

He asked how she was, and the world apart from the two of them winked out of existence. Mari took her cue from his affectionate name for her and switched into Welsh before launching into the complete unabridged story of everything she'd got up to since his last visit. This account was poured out in a single breath, for she was far too excited about conveying all the news to her uncle to be bothered with something so trivial as breathing. "I rode Neil's old bicycle without the training wheels on and only fell down six times Then mam said I had to stop only I didn't like to so I asked tad when he came home from work and he said Yes child so long as you stop pestering me I'm trying to read the paper and he made Neil come out to watch me and make sure I wasn't run over in the street and Neil was terribly cross because he wanted to go opposite to play with Owen's new game where you can fight dragons only not the real kind And he tried to trip me and make me fall so that I would have to come in early and he could go play but I tricked him and ran over his foot instead and he went inside and told and then we both had to go to our rooms without telly. Uncle Howell, who are they?"

Howell did not let Mari's lack of punctuation stop him from reacting to her news in all the right places, exclaiming here, congratulating her there, and shaking his head in disapproval at Neil's bad behaviour. When she asked about Michael and Sophie, Howell's smile broadened. He hadn't thought of this as an opportunity to introduce Sophie to his family, but it occurred to him now as the perfect opportunity, and an amusing diversion from the unpleasant business which had brought them. Howell pointed across the room to where Michael had slowly gravitated toward the ghostly blue glow of the television. "That young man who's got himself hypnotised by the_ teledu _is my magician's apprentice I've told you about. And this..." He turned and gestured to Sophie, his grin going a bit soft and vaguely stupid with affection. "This, Mari love, is my _cariad cywir_. I hope you two will become great friends, because she's going to be your aunt one day soon."

Mari peered curiously around his torso at Sophie. Then she burst into a delighted childish cackle. "Uncle Howell, you're funny! That lady is OLD." Mari laughed some more at his wonderful joke, nearly falling off him as she began to scrunch in half from the giggles. She had to let go with one hand and clutch her stomach from mirth.

"Oh no, _cariad_." Howell looked at her gravely and used his "I'm telling you something very secret and important" voice. Mari knew the tone well and cut off her laughter abruptly to look up at her uncle with wide, curious eyes. "She only _looks _old. Really she's a very beautiful young lady. More lovely than any princess in your story book. But you see, a wicked witch was jealous of her, so she turned her into an old woman."

The best audience Howell had ever had, Mari clapped a hand over her mouth in shock and horror before peering at Sophie once more in fascination. After a moment of imagining what Sophie really looked like underneath the curse and thinking what _she _would do if a wicked witch tried to turn _her _into an old lady, Mari's hand fell away and she gripped her uncle's jacket, looking up at him imploringly. "Then you have to help her, Uncle Howell. Use your magic to change her back!"

"Oh, I will, _cariad_," he assured her. "Never you fear. But it's quite a powerful curse, you see. And it's taking even _my _very strong magic time to break through." This seemed to be a suitable enough answer for his niece.

"Will you bring her back to show me when it finally works?" she asked, eagerly.

"I'll do better than that," Howell said, smiling indulgently. "I'll make you flower girl at the wedding." Mari squealed with glee and bobbed up and down as if they were playing horse and rider. Howell was in the midst of a chuckle at her enthusiasm when he noticed Megan had come to stand in the doorway, looking as outraged and disappointed in his behaviour as she had ever been. This would not be the first time she had bawled him out for telling Mari "fantastical nonsense stories," but Howell did not like to fight with his sister in front of his niece or nephew. Before she could let loose on him and scold Mari for going along, Howell cut in with the official adult introductions, making them in Inglish for Sophie and Michael's benefit. Megan tried to discourage Welsh being spoken in her home in any case, her opinion of what was appropriate language for educated persons still stuck somewhere in the 1960s.

As he made the introductions, Mari chattered to him about what she was planning to wear for the wedding, and Howell switched back and forth between the two conversations and languages as necessary, telling Mari that galoshes, even her new purple ones with the frogs on them, would probably not go very well with her Sunday best. When it came time to introduce Sophie, Howell paused over her family name. He decided it was better for everyone that he pretend not to know it. In the void left by his hesitation, Sophie obligingly interjected it herself, and then Megan was shaking their hands, wearing her "You may leave my house at any time, you low-class hooligans" face.

He was hearing all about the sombrero Mari was going to make from cardboard to match her galoshes when Megan cut into their conversation, silencing her daughter with a disapproving admonishment. Mari's mouth shut with a snap, and she looked up at her uncle apologetically, as if to say, "We've got in trouble again for having fun." Megan asked how long they would be staying, clearly hoping they would leave soon. Howell patted Mari reassuringly and unwrapped her limbs from around him, trying not to be hurt by his own sister's eagerness to be quit of him as he set his niece back on her feet. This was not a new phenomenon, after all.

He answered Megan in the most careless manner he could put on that their visit would be brief. Megan made sure it would be by adding threateningly that Gareth had not returned from work _yet_, implying that he and his friends should leave before her husband returned. Howell pretended to miss the hint, declaring with a forced smile what a shame it was Gareth was not home. He added that they would not be able to wait and greet him when he returned, for he had only come by to introduce his friends and ask her a question. Howell had a small hope that saying he had come by to acquaint her with his patchwork family might cause Megan to feel some small amount of guilt for being so rude and inhospitable. But it was in vain. She waited, quietly and unhappily to hear what it was he wanted to ask her, the look on her face telling him she was expecting her brother to ask for money.

When Howell asked after Neil's missing homework assignment instead, Megan was surprised enough to speak to him like a human being for the first time in months, her relief at his un-Howellish behaviour washing the sour expression from her face. She relaxed, telling him about Neil's strict new English teacher, and how distressed he had been when his homework had gone missing. Much as Howell hated to interrupt this uncharacteristically civil behaviour, all he wanted to know was what Neil had done with the actual spell that had appeared in place of his homework. The extent of Megan's knowledge on the subject exhausted after she said she'd told Neil to hand it in, she told Howell to consult his nephew for further clues.

A pang of resentment shot through him when she informed him Neil could be found in his old bedroom. For she didn't call it "your old room" or even "the guest bedroom" but "the front bedroom," as if it had acquired a new identity altogether in his absence, had been completely swept clean of any trace he had once lived here, erased like an unwanted excerpt from the otherwise happy novel of their lives. Howell knew that since Gareth had tossed him out, they'd converted his room to a study-slash-playroom for the children. But all Megan had to say was "upstairs." He did not like the feeling of having been written out of their lives. Inwardly, Howell shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. The poem. The spell. The curse. Yes, that was what mattered. He beckoned Michael and Sophie to follow as he led the way back into the hall and up the stairs, holding Mari's hand for comfort. So long as she was in this house, Howell would always feel at least a little bit welcome.

Arriving at the door to his old bedroom, he saw that Megan had accurately predicted the scene. Ever since Gareth had temporarily lost his mind and bought the used Apple II from the pawnbroker's, Neil and the computer had been inseparable. At least he seemed to have found a friend who shared his passion for staring at glowing green letters on a screen all day long. Howell attempted to draw him out of what was clearly a very serious game of Dungeons & Dragons by calling his name. But Neil no longer responded to his uncle in the manner Mari did. The last few years had seen him grow too adult for such displays of affection, and he was trying too hard to mimic his father in this last stretch of prepubescence to show anything but dislike for Howell. Playing grown-up allowed for no more games of airplane with his carefree uncle, and required a strong disapproval of the black sheep of the family to match the feelings of his parents.

Neil made no response to Howell whatever. It was his little friend who spoke up, warning the intruders to stay quiet or Neil might lose his turn in the game. Sophie and Michael gasped at this news and backed away, no doubt thinking that text-based roleplay was some sort of dark sorcery that might prove fatal to its players at any moment. Still stinging from the treatment he'd had of Megan downstairs, Howell decided he would tolerate no more of being ignored by the child whose diapers he had changed not so long ago. Crossing the room, he made a quick end of the source of their distraction, unplugging the computer along with its various attachments for good measure. Neil had apparently been so engrossed in the game, he had not yet noticed his uncle. For after the screen went blank with a tell-tale whir of power loss and the boys enthusiastically rent the air with expletives Howell would have preferred not be spoken in his niece's hearing, Neil turned on Mari as the likeliest saboteur. It was not until she protested her innocence with a respectable amount of sass for a four-year-old that Neil turned to level his miniature version of Gareth's glare on Howell.

Unaffected--Neil's rendition lacking something after one has suffered the genuine article--Howell amicably greeted his nephew as if nothing were wrong. Remembering that Neil's Welsh proficiency was not half that of his younger sister, Howell held back to English at the last minute, though his mind was still in Welsh-mode, and the greeting came out as a literal translation of what he had been about to say. Once more, it was not Neil who spoke, but his computer chum, rudely asking as if Howell were not standing right there who this adult-type creature who had spoilt their fun was. Gareth's glare was not the only thing Neil had been practicing his imitation of. He responded to his friend by using one of Howell's brother-in-law's favourite adjectives for him: "no-good."

He demanded to know what his uncle wanted and ordered Howell to plug the computer back in before he'd even given him time to reply. Howell thought if that was how Neil wanted to do things, he could easily make this exchange as difficult as possible for his nephew. "There's a welcome in the valleys!" he dripped sarcasm in reply to Neil's rude excuse for a greeting. Then he told Neil plainly he would not comply until his nephew gave him some information. When Neil protested that he had no time for pleasantries because of the important business of computer gaming, Howell knew just what to do.

He did not have to ask to know that Dungeons & Dragons was an old game. Gareth never bought the children anything just for fun unless it was their birthday or Christmas. Even then, he protested anyone actually giving them the "useless waste of money" they'd specifically asked for. But Howell asked Neil whether it was a new game anyway in order to make a point. When his nephew confirmed it was an old one, both boys looking decidedly glum about this fact, Neil almost showed sympathy and commiseration for Howell's standing in the family by complaining of his parents' tight-fistedness and strict opinion of what sorts of things constituted a useless waste.

Ever the smooth negotiator, Howell offered the boys the bribe of a new game for merely a moment of their time. He would have liked to give Neil something in any case, feeling he had unintentionally discriminated against his nephew somewhat last week when he had arrived with gifts for both Megan and Mari but not Neil. This way, he got something he wanted as well. Both of the boys responded to his offer with predictable enthusiasm, Neil asking if the game would be another of those one-of-a-kind Howell conjured up for him by magic. As those were the only kind he'd ever given Neil, being much less of a bother than searching software stores in Wales for just the right thing, Howell said yes. The boys looked suitably chuffed and became suddenly very cooperative.

Howell presented the poem for their examination, asking them to tell him about it. Neil's initial response was so simplistic, Howell seriously considered giving him an ear-boxing. His literal-minded father had been a bad influence on Neil in more ways than one. Once more, Neil's little friend piped up with a more complete answer. He waited quietly while the chum drew words out of his recalcitrant nephew, finally giving Howell the answer he needed: the dreaded English teacher had his spell. He asked where she lived and Neil told him dutifully, mercenarily demanding his reward straight after. Howell was quite through with these bad manners in his nephew. He decided one bad turn deserved another, and refused to give him the game until he remembered the rest of the poem. Howell thought it was worth a try to get to hear the rest of it without having to retrieve his book, at any rate.

While Neil raged against this injustice with all the passion and whine of a prepubescent, Howell conjured up a cartridge for the boys to play. As he had discovered years ago, nothing was quite so fun as reality in Ingary, and Howell based the game scenario around the castle. He chuckled with perverse amusement at the little trick he'd played on his nephew before handing the packet over. Never since last Christmas had Neil acted so respectfully toward his uncle. Howell plugged all of the machinery back in and let the boys get back to it. The prospect of a new one of Uncle Howell's special games had drawn even Mari over into the thick of it, and he smiled at the happy scene he had created, motioning Michael and Sophie to follow him out of the room.

Now that Howell had the information he needed regarding the whereabouts of the spell, he wanted a look at the rest of the poem -- preferably quickly, so that they could be on their way before Gareth arrived home. He jogged down the stairs, giving the familiar squeaky 10th step an extra hop, intending to ask Megan where she'd put his belongings when they'd renovated his room. Unfortunately for Howell, Michael and Sophie were not right behind him, but Megan was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, having been circling for just such an opportunity to sink her claws into him. "Have you quite done subjecting my children to your amoral ways and good-for-nothing friends?"

Before she could continue, Howell cut in, coolly responding as if the question had included no insult either to himself or his friends. "Yes, thank you. Neil told me precisely what I needed to know. I'll be out of your hair just as soon as I have a look through the boxes of books I left in the 'front bedroom'."

"Whose books?" she asked, confrontationally. "As you were the one inconsiderate enough to leave them there when you moved out, Gareth and I thought we deserved some compensation for all the rent you never paid, not to mention cleaning fees for making that room fit for human beings again. I took all of that rubbish to the curiosities shop and sold it."

Howell's jaw dropped. "You WHAT!"

"I won't tolerate any more of your dramatics, Howell, acting as if you are the injured party after everything you've put us through. If you wanted all of that rubbish, you should have taken it with you when you left, but did you? No. Whatever Howell doesn't have time to tend to is Megan's job to deal with, isn't it? Megan who's always cleaned up after you. Megan who put you through **nine **extra years of school which you've done absolutely _nothing _with. Megan who always had to take up the slack for your lazy, irresponsible ways."

It was the standard list of diatribes. Howell could not be bothered with it, incensed as he was that she'd sold his belongings as if it was her right to do so. There were some quite rare editions in those books she'd sold to the junk shop. Finds worth far more than the few pence she'd probably got for them. That alone was enough to cause his face to darken. He couldn't hold his tongue and just let her rant as he usually did. "And I don't suppose it counts whatever that half of those years in school were spent 'lazily' and 'irresponsibly' caring for your children while you were out working?"

But his sister kept going, merely raising her voice when Howell tried to interrupt. "Megan who was stuck talking to those poor girls who called and called for you, crying, wondering why you wouldn't see them anymore, because you were sneaking out the back to find a new conquest. Well I had enough of it, Howell. No more. And Gareth supports me in this 100."

Howell could still not believe she'd sold all of his books. Random odds and ends were one thing, but Megan knew how much his books meant to him. He tried to change the argument round so that it was back to being about his belongings, but Megan had worked herself up to a good temper and bawled him out for interrupting. Then she proceeded with her usual sermon about what a burden and shame he was to the family. How she had gone without so much in life to bring him up right in their parents' absence, giving up her own schooling to join the work force early and put him through post-graduate school. Sacrificing the marital bliss of her newlywed home to give her useless little brother a place to stay, even when it caused such fights with Gareth. It went on and on, never giving Howell a chance to defend himself. But when she brought up his "spoiling" Mari, he could keep quiet no longer. If showing affection for one's niece was considered a crime in this house, Howell wanted no part of it.

But before he could cut in, Sophie went sailing past, commanding him to follow. Her decided appearance cut through Megan's tirade like a razor, and Howell watched in awe as Sophie played queen of England, condescending to Megan like the hired help who has just interrupted the crown prince's busy schedule. He could have kissed her right there. The dumbfounded expression on Megan's face was worth a million words. Howell gave in to his rescuer and let Sophie shove him through the door. If he had not been so angry with Megan still, he would have laughed at the scene.

One last thought occurred to him as Michael and Sophie followed him out onto the porch. He'd assumed they could take his car to Mrs. Phillips'. But if Gareth and Megan had appropriated all of his belongings in the name of back-rent, there was a chance his faithful steed was no more. Howell turned back to ask Megan about it with all the ire due upon learning one's own family has stabbed one in the back. She responded that the car was still there, but her phrasing was not reassuring. Clearly, if breaking into the garage would not have constituted damaging his own property, Gareth would have happily done so by now in order to sell Howell's old Mini. To punctuate her disappointment at having one thing left of her brother's on the premises, Megan slammed the door after them. Howell gritted his teeth and remained moodily silent as he led Sophie and Michael round the side to the garage. Just another perfect episode in what was quickly becoming the worst day of his life.

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**Author's Notes: **I ended up having to use more of DWJ's original dialogue in this than I would have liked. Nearly all of Howl's dialogue is straight out of _HMC_, along with Sophie's single line. However, Michael's, Megan's, and Mari's dialogue are all mine.

The poem Howl begins to quote and paraphrase to Sophie and rewrite in his own mind is "The Sun Rising," which was also penned by John Donne, who wrote "Song," the poem featured in the curse. It's really for real there in the original. If you don't believe me, go look for yourself. DWJ is brilliant, and Rowana is frighteningly clever for pointing out the allusion to me.

_Dr. Snuggles _is a British children's cartoon which aired originally in the late 70s but continued into the early 80s in syndication. I watched it a few times when I was in England in 1980 and was somewhat baffled by what the British considered children's entertainment at the time.

Howl's little poke at Megan for being stuck in the 60s because she prefers Welsh not be spoken in her home refers obliquely to the patriotic linguistic renaissance which took place in Wales about 30 years ago. Before then, there was still a lot of English-influenced feeling, especially in the south of Wales where Howl is from, that Welsh was a dying country bumpkin's language which should be allowed to go the way of the dinosaur.

Howl's greeting to Neil in chapter 11 is a literal translation of the colloquial Welsh greeting "Sut mae?" or "Shwmae?" Because "How do?" is not a very common greeting in English, this leapt out at me when I was rereading the chapter recently. No doubt DWJ put it in there intentionally, and I couldn't help but draw attention to it here.

**Random Welsh words:**

_Teledu_: television (pronounced "tell-EH-dee")

_Cariad cywir_: true love


	18. Cursed

**Characters this chapter: **Howell, Sophie, Michael, Miss Angorian, Calcifer

**Rating:** PG-13

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 18: **_Cursed_

Howell led the way round to the shed at the back, saying nothing. The damp, twilit air helped to cool his temper, and he speeded the process by focusing his mind on what was really important. Yes, Megan and Gareth had committed yet another crime against him. Yes, his sister could always get under his skin, no matter how much he'd prepared for a confrontation with her. But he had a poem to research and a curse to avoid; more was at stake than a few old - but precious - books he'd left behind in the move to Ingary. The problems he had with his family had existed from long before this and were not about to be solved any time soon. No matter how brilliant, charming, and perfect one was, not everything had a quick solution, much to Howell's annoyance. Best to let it go for the time being.

Michael and Sophie were respectfully silent as they followed him round to the car. No doubt they had been unprepared for the scene they had just witnessed inside. Perhaps they felt sorry for him, aghast at the utter lack of respect, not to mention human kindness shown him by his own flesh and blood. Whatever the reason, Howell was grateful for the break from inane questions. It helped him get his head together.

As he opened the shed door, it occurred to him Neil's dreaded English teacher was likely to have a copy of the book he'd come in search of. Perhaps even the very same copy, assigning his nephew's homework from a lovely volume she'd picked up in the local junk shop for 50p. The thought caused that feeling of irritation just on the underside of his skin to flare up again, and Howell had to consciously separate himself from it. He told himself he just needed to see the poem in its entirety at this point. He could mourn the loss of the book and rail against the injustices perpetrated against him by his elder sister later.

Howell loaded Michael in the back and put Sophie in front next to him. It was automatic to seat the youngest in the back seat where the lap belts worked, while any excuse to have Sophie next to him was a good one. They hadn't far to go to Mrs. Phillips'. Unfortunately, the most direct route took them down some of the steepest hills in Aberaman. The indirect route went all the way out by the colliery and took nearly an hour. It was nice and scenic if one were planning to run out of petrol with one's date along for the ride, but hardly practical at times like this.

The steep hills along their route were unfortunate for two reasons. First and foremost, Howell was absolutely terrified of heights. One would think such a phobia might not apply when standing - or sitting in a moving vehicle - at the top of a steep incline. Unfortunately, in Howell's case, it did. His family had found this out the hard way when they'd taken holiday in Snowdon one spring. A then six-year-old Howell had routinely brought up breakfast, lunch, and supper any time they'd attempted to climb to a height above two stories. In the end, his mum had stayed behind with him while his father and Megan had gone to see the views, and Howell had come to terms with his acrophobia. The second reason the steep hills were unfortunate was that he found Sophie seemed to share his fear of heights. In this they could not have been more perfectly matched. Howell could never have married a woman who enjoyed risking her life just to see a view – or worse, encouraged him to do the same.

When, at the apex of the first stomach-turning downhill sweep he glanced sideward from the view over his white-knuckled grip and saw that Sophie had squeezed her eyes shut for dear life and all the colour had drained from her face, Howell vowed to make the car ride as painless as possible for both their sakes. The only solution he'd learnt for dealing with this phobia, however, in the odd decade he'd been driving the valleys was to shoot down the wickedly steep hills as quickly as humanly possible in order to get them over with. Howell had found, if he took them fast enough, he would be going back uphill again before he'd had time to scream, much like a roller coaster at an amusement park.

And this was precisely how he took the roads down to town. Michael disappeared from sight in the rearview mirror early on. Perhaps he was cowering on the floor for safety, but as Howell couldn't see him, he didn't have to feel bad about the effect his driving was having on his apprentice. Howeverm he could not help but notice the tiny crackling squeaks of distress Sophie kept making as she attempted to cling to her tatty old car seat for dear life. Howell sympathised, urging the Mini on ever faster. Unfortunately, Sophie's car seat was less helpful, providing little support as foam bits of it came away in her desperate grip. Once more Howell regretted underestimating the ex-girlfriend who had taken out her displeasure with him on his poor old car. He had not locked it in those days - there was hardly a crime rate in Wales, even down in Cardiff - so she had let herself in and proceeded to hack away at his upholstery with a chef's knife. This was thanks for his honesty with her regarding a mostly-drunken evening he'd spent with her roommate. That particular incident convinced Howell that honesty _and_ long-term relationships were largely overrated.

He'd scrounged the money to replace the driver's seat, but since that fateful day the passenger seat had really been more an idea of a seat than an actual seat, as Sophie was now finding, much to her distress. Truth be told, Howell was pleased his old Mini was holding together at all. The smoke that poured out the exhaust and left a dark cloud in their wake was hardly what he considered a healthy colour for a motor to be producing, and the frame did rattle and shake so, even when they were coasting free downhill. In spite of this, the car continued to move forward and obey the pedals quite faithfully, which impressed him, considering its age and mileage, not to mention how long he'd left it sitting, undriven, in the shed. Howell hadn't even been forced to employ any magic to keep it going, aside from the tiny bit in the gas tank. He could not bother with the trouble of stopping for petrol just now.

When they finally reached Cardiff Road and the hills along their route decreased to an angle of merely 30 degrees as opposed to 60, Howell sneaked another glance at Sophie to see how she'd held up. She'd gone still as a statue, and he wasn't entirely certain she was still breathing, though the fact she was pressed back into her seat with her eyes tightly shut was a good sign she was still with them. All the same, when they came to the center of town and the road became as close to level as it ever did, Howell reached out with his left hand to assure himself Sophie still had a pulse. Thankfully, she did. He took the liberty of removing the bits of seat she was still numbly clutching, tossing them aside as if that had been his true aim in reaching out for her. Howell's hand lingered over hers - Sophie's fingers were ice cold - and his thumb moved over her knobby knuckles, attempting to rub some warmth back into her cold hand.

As he looked around for someplace to park, Howell noticed Michael staring at them in the rearview mirror. The young man wore a dark, troubled expression and looked about to say something. Howell quickly released Sophie's hand, as if he'd been caught by their chaperone doing something he oughtn't. Fortunately for him, Sophie herself had not noticed. She was still too traumatized from the ride down to rejoin the world around her, her eyes tightly shut even though they were rolling to a stop. With a few quick jerks of the steering wheel and a love tap or two delivered to the car before and behind, Howell completed an expert parallel parking job, as usual. Smiling fondly at the terrified mousy expression frozen on Sophie's face, he leaned over to breathe in her ear, "You can open your eyes now." Before he could even think to do more, Howell saw Michael was preparing to say something again and hurriedly got out of the car to go round and open the door for Sophie.

Once his gentlemanly duty had been done and a vaguely trembling Sophie had been helped out onto the curb, Howell put the seat forward for Michael and turned away, pretending to be busy examining the "Teas Closed" sign in Mrs. Phillips' window, just in case his apprentice still felt the need to comment on his recent behaviour. "Don't forget to shut the door," he murmured, wandering over to the door set off to the side of the teashop window. Howell read the name next to the bell. _L. Angorian. _Had that been the name they'd said back at the house just now? It sounded familiar, either way, though a bit curious. Not Welsh. What sort of name _was_ Angorian? Turkish? A humourous image sprang to Howell's mind, of a dark Saracen standing over her students, brandishing a saber. Feeling Sophie and Michael come up to stand behind him, he decided it was time to get on with it. Shaking off an inexplicable twinge of foreboding, he rang the bell.

Howell's finger had hardly left the button when the door opened, as if their arrival had been anticipated. Actually, given the identity of the figure standing in the doorway, that was likely. Howell felt the last few months of relative freedom come crashing down about his ears. The last time he had seen those eyes, dark and large as lotus petals, they had been gazing down at him from a wall of the castle in the Waste that served as less of a hearth than an altar dedicated to the Witch's fire demon. Her perfect, heart-shaped face had been composed of licking purple flames then. Howell had wondered how two fallen stars could be so different. Calcifer had assured him later that celestial beings did indeed have gender, for then as now, she had been irrefutably female, as lovely a specimen among fire demons as she was among human women now.

The horror that gripped him at the sight of her _here_ in **Wales**, the realisation that he was well and truly caught this time and his family in far greater danger than he'd imagined prevented Howell from appreciating her looks to the extent she and Violet had clearly intended he should. They had done a thorough job of making her attractive to him. In fact, there was only one look the fire demon could have taken which Howell would have found more alluring, and the fact she had not done so proved to him that Sophie was still safe. They did not know of his feelings for the nosy old woman currently peering over his shoulder.

The fire demon spoke, and even her voice was divine. Oh, she was good. If not for the knowing look in her eyes when she'd first opened the door, Howell would have said her acting was flawless. He tried to remember what it was Violet had named her fire demon. He seemed to recall it had something to do with flowers; she was awful with that sort of trite affectation of effeminacy. _L. Angorian_… Lily. Yes, that was it. Howell had no doubt she'd used that same name here. It was typical of Violet's hubris not to bother with a false name.

It occurred to Howell that he should stop looking shocked and play along. If the fire demon knew he'd recognised her, Sophie and Michael would be in danger. He quickly ceased gaping like a fish at this dreadful turn of fortune and steeled himself to strut out onto the boards. If it was a game of acting they wanted to play, Howell was happy to oblige them, for that was a contest they were sure to lose. Not wanting to blind her just yet, he selected one of his charming smiles of lower wattage and acknowledged the fire demon's "guess" of who he was, returning the volley. When Howell mentioned the reason they'd come, Lily immediately invited them inside. He was reluctant to step into her territory so easily, but Howell knew if he refused he risked revealing that he knew her true identity. There was nothing for it but to maintain his charming façade and follow her up to the flat, though Howell made certain to keep between her and his two loved ones, just in case. As he set foot inside her flat and felt rather than saw the web of spellwork stretching up and all around, he told himself that no matter how much she'd fortified this space and made it her own, this was still Wales. His world. His territory. _She_ was the one who did not belong here.

The flat itself looked nearly as though it could have belonged to a real primary school English teacher. Books and binders, stacks of homeworks yet to be graded, along with red ink pens to do the job overflowed every surface in a way that implied the owner was a very busy woman. But there was a suspicious tidiness to the mess, as if it had been carefully arranged by a prop crew to present the _appearance_ of a messy room belonging to a certain type of person. And the scarcity of furniture was not quite right for an actual human being who used such things from time to time. The Spartan décor and lack of adequate lighting reminded Howell of the inside of the castle in the Waste, perhaps too much. There was a certain degree of humanity simply lacking in the surroundings.

When the fire demon asked Sophie to take a seat, Howell subtly tested the chair for any malignant spells as the old-young woman lowered herself into it. Finding it perfectly safe, his attention lingered on Sophie herself. She still looked quite shaken from the car ride here. Howell realised in his earlier foul mood he had not stopped to consider that neither Sophie nor Michael had ever ridden in a car before. He felt somewhat guilty for this negligence in retrospect.

When Howell glanced over at Michael to see how he was faring, he found his apprentice had fallen head-first into the trap the Witch and her fire demon had laid for him, the young man's eyes riveted to Lily as if she were Venus incarnate. Poor Michael. It was an incredibly strong spell of attraction the two of them had put together. A bit _too_ strong, in Howell's opinion. He felt well-qualified to criticise, as he and Violet had a very similar style of assembling spells. Both looked haphazard, completed the work quickly, and produced spells that were quite powerful. The difference was that the Witch was careless, blasé and overconfident in her skills so that she did not take the proper time with them, whereas Howell's mind merely operated several steps ahead of his hands. His spells were usually complete before he'd gone through half the motions. Hers balanced precariously on poorly-constructed foundations, but what they lacked in style and precision they made up for in sheer brute force.

This attraction spell was a primary example. Oh, she'd gone through all the steps, researching Howell's personal background, ferreting out the qualities he found most attractive in a woman both physically and intellectually. But the combination was off just enough to be noticeable. Expecting even a very old and powerful fire demon to accurately approximate a human being was a bit much. And the attraction charm itself was to normal human pheromones what dime store perfume was to Chanel No. 5. It reeked to high heaven. Michael was young both in magic and in manhood, and could not be expected to tell the difference. But, though the attraction spell hit Howell hard enough to knock him down, he had little difficulty resisting it.

However, as he was expected to fall into their trap, he had to pretend to do so. Howell began to flirt with his opponent, asking engagingly how she'd been able to recognise him. He was interested to hear the story the two of them had concocted to go along with this elabourate background. Lily quickly pretended to be busy looking for his spell in a stack of papers on a nearby table. As he watched her, Howell became more and more curious about the spell which had transformed her into a human being. It was not a glamour, for he could not see through it. A mere glamour would not have allowed her the freedom of movement she'd been exercising, either; fire demons were bound to their respective hearths – at least in their natural forms. But whatever the spell was, it went beyond mere transformation; the basic structure of her self seemed to have been changed, a feat which involved more transmutation than simple metamorphosis. By rights, she _should_ have been setting fire to those papers she was carefully sorting through. But she plainly wasn't. Somehow, a ball of gas hotter than anything naturally occurring on the planet had become 90 water, just as Sophie, Michael, and himself were. Howell was terribly intrigued. If nothing else, he wanted to learn more about this spell for Calcifer's sake.

The fire demon responded to his question in a tone that was not amused, informing him dryly that what she knew about him was due to the fact he was still the subject of much village gossip. Howell could not help but smile at the ego stroking of such a compliment and leaned in closer, resting his elbow on the table in an attempt to catch her eye and pursue the flirtation with a heart-melting smile to combat her chilly manner. When Lily continued to avoid his gaze, he began to wonder why. It was a bit suspicious she was still searching for the spell; Howell had no doubt she knew precisely where it was. So either she was avoiding his gaze for fear of being recognised now they were up close or she was doing it to be coy, encourage his pursuit of her. Howell would have liked to think his animal magnetism was proving too much and had somehow intimidated the fire demon, but he knew better. Their plan hinged on his response to the attraction spell, so surely they had been prepared for it to work.

If she was doing it to appeal to his predatory instinct, the effort was not altogether unsuccessful. Howell did love a good chase. He grinned like a naughty schoolboy as he inquired about the specifics of the rumours she'd heard about him. He had a good guess as to the sort of answer she would give if she were staying true to the harsh disciplinarian role she had chosen. Howell was nearly giddy with anticipation of it when he heard Sophie's aggravated grunt of disapproval from behind him. It was like a wake-up call, reminding him that he was perhaps not entirely immune to the ham-fisted attraction spell.

The fire demon's answer was disappointingly censored. She mentioned only rumours of his mysterious comings and goings in the village. Howell couldn't let her stop there. When the topic of conversation was himself, censorship was unacceptable. He teased her to continue, to speak the details she had left out of her initial answer, knowing there was more. Howell was quite aware of the sorts of things said of him in the village. He had spent decades intentionally and unintentionally cultivating the public opinion about himself, and knew for a fact parents did not hide their daughters from "that Howell Jenkins" merely because he made mysterious and infrequent visits home.

The game was becoming much more enjoyable for him now she seemed to be resisting. Howell's eyes rested heavily on her, daring Lily to look up at him once more. Her back stiffened with offense at the flirtatious tone of his prompting, and to Howell's delight, she played up her role of severe school marm. Hinting with propriety at the severe impropriety of the rumours circulating about him, the fire demon cast a knowing look of distaste at Sophie and Michael, as if she would spare them the utter filth by refusing to repeat it aloud. Howell wanted to laugh and applaud. In a way, it was a shame this Miss Angorian character was not a real person. What a diverting challenge she would have made. Violet seemed to know his taste much better than he'd given her credit for.

Lily brought Howell's line of questioning to a close by producing the spell at last, demanding he tell her exactly what it was in a tone she might have used if he'd been caught passing notes in class. It looked as though she was planning to hold the spell hostage until he made an answer. Howell was not about to simply give her the upper hand like that. Feeling the balance of power could do with some tipping, he decided it was time to find out whether or not she was genuinely intimidated by his flirting. Whether she was prepared to hand it over yet or not, Howell reached for the spell with one hand and distracted her from snatching it away by gallantly taking her hand with the other. Or at least, that was what he'd intended to do. His attempt to touch her seemed to send her into a panic, which just made Howell all the more determined to succeed. Quite a scuffle ensued as he attempted to capture her hand and she fought to prevent him without making any kind of physical contact in the process. The altercation was over quickly, ending with Howell the undisputed champion, holding the spell while the fire demon was put into retreat; she'd had to hide her hands behind her back in order to prevent him taking one of them. His flirtatious smile widened with victory as he passed the spell to Michael, telling his apprentice to answer Miss Angorian's question for him.

Howell's faith in his apprentice's abilities was renewed when Michael immediately recognised the spell and its purpose, proclaiming both aloud. Folding her arms across her chest, Lily intimated she had guessed as much and demanded to know what Howell had been doing with such a thing as a spell. Her scowl was more grand inquisitor than strict schoolteacher, and Howell had difficulty restraining his laughter at the irony of a witch's familiar accusing him of practicing the dark arts. He wondered how she could possibly keep a straight face. Perhaps she lacked Calcifer's sense of humour. Wrestling his own under control, Howell employed a hurt tone as he explained that, naturally, if he were found to be in possession of such a thing, it was merely in conjunction with his research on the subject, as per his recently completed doctoral thesis.

His favourite part of the performance was when he assured her he had never worked a spell in his life. Unfortunately, the momentum of Howell's lying was ruined by Sophie, who snorted incredulously at this point. Really. Why did she have to be so self-righteous? She herself told lies every day about who she was. Howell cast her a small frown for interfering in things she knew not of and attempted to recover by placing one hand over his empty chest and swearing that the spell was merely for research purposes.

For reasons Howell could not discern, "Miss Angorian" seemed eager to be quit of them after that. Perhaps she was afraid he would attempt to touch her again. But he was not about to easily comply with any request she made, be it taking his leave or handing back the slip of paper she had managed to sneak into his home. The more eager she was to have it back, the longer Howell intended to make her wait. Who did she think she was fooling, anyway? "Photocopies cost money," indeed. He turned the tables on her by bringing it out and holding the poem just out of the fire demon's reach, happily using her reluctance to get any closer to him to his advantage.

Pretending to consider the poem, he prompted her to tell him the rest by feigning ignorance on the subject. Unfortunately, he did a better job than he'd intended. She leapt on his wrong guess as to the author like a cat does a mouse. Howell was confused. He used Raleigh poems all the time in his romantic pursuits. He'd been absolutely certain this was one of his. This Donne fellow hardly rang a bell in his literary memory at all. Hadn't he just written sermons or something? As Howell puzzled over this, he easily ignored the severe look of censure the fire demon leveled at him for his mistake and accepted her offer of looking at the poem in its entirety. Now that he had his spell back, that was the only thing left to do.

While the fire demon walked to her bookshelves to retrieve the necessary volume, Howell's anxiety about the curse began to return. Perhaps it was not the best idea in the world to ask one of its casters to show him the medium through which the curse was being delivered. But it seemed a moot point, now. Howell felt as though he'd been caught the moment she opened the door to them. Moreover, if he tried to avoid his fate now, he risked losing the tactical advantage he had in letting them think they'd won. Once the curse had been properly cast and he had heard all the particulars, Howell could settle down to the task of breaking it. Intuition told him this was not the place or time to make his last stand.

As Lily reached to a high shelf for the desired volume, he soothed his anxiety by taking in the view. Yes, she and Violet had done quite a good job of coming up with a human form that would push Howell's buttons. Had he not been in on the joke, he might have reacted violently to the strip of skin along her midriff that had just been bared by the action of her reaching up for the book. But of course he was _not_ reacting. At all.

It helped that Sophie was currently glaring holes in his back just for looking. She had been more grumpy than usual ever since they'd entered the flat. Howell cherished a secret smile at her jealousy. If Sophie's feelings were coming close enough to the surface to make her surly, that meant they were coming closer and closer to the point where she would have to acknowledge them. Howell decided to give them an extra nudge in that direction, impetuously asking "Miss Angorian" out to supper.

This simple question provoked a beautiful reaction from both women. Sophie made an outraged gurgling noise as if she'd begun to physically choke on her jealousy, and the fire demon whirled around with a thinly-veiled look of panic to inform him in no uncertain terms that she was not that sort of woman. When she kept on, as if to make certain Howell understood her answer was no, Lily made a fatal error. Ben Sullivan's name was the last thing he had expected to hear pass her lips. Suddenly Howell knew exactly how they had got their information about his home world. Perhaps that had been their whole purpose in kidnapping the Royal Wizard. It would not surprise him in the least. Violet was quite obsessed with revenge; she would stop at nothing to get him back on her terms.

The fact Lily and the Witch had worked Sullivan into their back story gave Howell some hope that he might still be alive. He didn't know why precisely, but he felt that if Ben were dead, she would have painted herself a widow or spoken of him as a lost love. She hadn't. And so the mistake told Howell a great deal more than the lie she actually spoke. Within her mistake was a further mistake which just made him feel superior. Lily had dropped Sullivan's name as if he were a man Howell must surely know, also being from Aberdare. It showed Violet's usual sloppiness and lack of depth in research. Ben Sullivan wasn't from Aberaman at all; he was from Cwmbach. And though both villages did fall under the urban umbrella of Aberdare, small village rules did not apply to a population upwards of 50,000 stretched over such a large amount of space. There was no more reason Howell should recognize Sullivan's name than he should any other man who happened to live in the county. The Witch and her fire demon had made the mistake of assuming towns in modern Wales worked just as they did in pre-industrial Ingary, where small community mentalities were the norm.

Howell tried not to look smug as he told her he'd never heard of Ben Sullivan. When she did not react to this statement, he knew they had not completely tapped the Royal Wizard's knowledge, for the truth was they _had _met before Ingary. That particular story was one that went even further back into Howell's past, and he was relieved they had not gleaned that much. Also, it was another encouraging sign that Sullivan might yet be alive. While the fire demon explained, as if to a small, dim-witted child, that Ben was her fiancée and had disappeared some years ago, Howell ruminated on the implications of the mistakes his foes had made, so typical of the Witch's overconfidence. Clearly they thought they'd made some terribly clever joke by throwing Sullivan into their back story like this, mocking Howell in a way he was not expected to grasp. It was too bad for them he was twice as clever as both of them put together.

He was still feeling very pleased with himself when the fire demon offered to read the poem aloud to him. Howell fostered the illusion that they had thoroughly outwitted and trapped him at last by encouraging her to do so, a compliment on her voice the coup de grace. From the look on Lily's face, she had been looking forward to pronouncing the rest of the curse on him, and he was happy to allow her the false moment of triumph. It would make the look on her face when he came back later and broke the curse all the more sweet.

Howell pretended to be enchanted as she read aloud the second verse, but the task became increasingly difficult as the grim future prescribed for him by the rhyme unfurled before his mind's eye. Even then he was fine, utterly confident in his ability to break the curse. None of the pronouncements came as a surprise to him until the final lines of the second stanza triggered his memory of the last verse.

It was too horrible to contemplate, much less hear spoken aloud. With ice water pounding in his veins, Howell all but begged the fire demon to stop reading just as she began to read that last terrible stanza. She did stop, but the words didn't, marching across the surface of Howell's consciousness like an unstoppable army now the curse had been set on its course.

"**If thou find'st one, let me know**

**Such a pilgrimage were sweet;**

**Yet do not, I would not go,**

**Though at next door we might meet,**

**Though she were true, when you met her,**

**And last, till you write your letter,**

**Yet she**

**Will be**

**False, ere I come, to two, or three." **

It was by far the cruelest, most heinous thing Violet could have done, cursing Sophie along with him. Howell had been prepared for every other possibility. Being bound to the Witch forever through his infidelity was par for the course; he knew somehow the curse would work in a clause wherein he would have to return to her. Violet's psychotic possessiveness was one of the reasons he'd left. But this was too much. It was one thing to arrange the curse so that he was prevented from ever finding his true love, but quite another to give him the freedom to do so only to curse his beloved to be false. It broke Howell's heart to think that his feelings for Sophie had spelt her doom. Fortunately his heart was not present to be broken just now. All the same, he felt suddenly very very ill.

Feeling as though he'd swallowed several large rocks, Howell babbled his thanks to "Miss Angorian" for her assistance, along with a random comment or two he could not later recall. His mind was spinning its wheels in panic. They had to leave before he gave anything away, or worse, the fire demon decided to go for Sophie or Michael now she had delivered the curse. Howell knew he was faltering badly, like an injured dog limping across the M25. Even oblivious Sophie had noticed that something was wrong. What a terrible time for her to be looking at him with concern in those watery blue eyes. With the last of his willpower Howell made their excuses and asked Lily to supper one last time to keep up appearances. Thankfully she said no, but the look in the fire demon's eyes when she asked after his health was that of a large feline about to leap out of the trees and squash its prey. Howell assured her he was quite well before tucking Sophie under one arm and Michael under the other and charging out of the flat as if making for the goal line without any defence.

Downstairs, he all but threw them into the Mini before screeching away from the curb at top speed. Howell kept the pedal to the floor all the way home. Fortunately, it seemed Lily was satisfied for the moment with having settled the curse upon him; no spells pursued them from Mrs. Phillips'. Howell might have felt relieved if not for that last awful stanza looming over him. Like a restless terrier, his mind worried at the problem of escaping the curse all the way back. It was possible Michael had asked him something somewhere along the ride back. It was also possible the Pope had gotten caught under the wheels of the car. Howell saw and heard nothing but the puzzle in his mind. Even his acrophobia could not focus his attention on the here and now. It was fortunate he'd driven these roads often enough that he could get them home on autopilot.

When they'd arrived back at Rivendell and Howell was carefully locking the Mini back into the shed to prevent Gareth's appropriation of it, he finally heard Michael asking what was wrong. Howell was too preoccupied to lie. He informed his apprentice in the most casual tone he could muster that the Witch's curse had finally come home to roost. There was no point in worrying Michael with the details. His predicament was well past the point where worrying would do him any good. As Howell led the way round to the front of the house, he attempted to calculate in his head precisely when the second stanza of the curse would take effect. It was possible he was thinking aloud to himself. It was possible he'd forgotten to put on trousers. Howell was hardly paying attention to the world around him any longer.

Sophie managed to pull him out of his thoughts partway by asking what was going to take place on Midsummer Day. Howell responded, irritably due to the interruption, that Midsummer would be the day he was forced to return to the Waste. Preoccupied with his troubles, Howell did not notice that Sophie and Michael stopped in shock at this unhappy news, and continued up the garden path alone, puzzling over the first verse once more, trying to work out what had come true thus far and what he might yet avoid. He did, however, hear Michael call out to him, asking if they had to go back inside Megan's. On any other day, Howell would have laughed at his apprentice's reluctance to return to that happy place. But not today. Before he could answer Michael, Sophie asked what the Witch would do when he returned to her.

Dear Sophie. It touched Howell that she was still worrying about him, and he turned on the stairs to look back at the two of them standing beyond the gate looking lost and frightened. Howell was frightened, too. He didn't know what Violet had planned for when he returned to her, but the word "unpleasant" seemed inadequate to cover the possibilities. Howell told Sophie firmly that he was not going to think about it. Then he climbed the stairs to the porch and informed Michael he did not have to go back inside "that house," opening the door to show the gateway home to the castle was active. Howell ushered Sophie and Michael through before following and locking the door behind them, twisting the knob green-blob down as he activated the magical security measures he and Calcifer had designed for when this moment finally arrived.

It had never felt so good to be home. Even if no place could be completely safe for him now the curse had caught up, it helped to be back in the familiar domestic surroundings of the microcosm he himself had created. Howell sighed with exhaustion and gravitated toward the comforting warmth of the hearth. Calcifer would understand; they were in this together, after all. He threw his friend a fresh log and told him the bad news. "She caught up, old blueface."

Calcifer's purple eyes met his with a mixture of fear, sympathy, and resignation. "I know. I felt it take."

Howell sat down in front of the hearth for some good, old-fashioned brooding. He would be damned if he was going to allow the curse to drag Sophie down with him. He might be doomed, but that did not mean he was giving up.

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**Author's Note:** The last and only lines of dialogue are straight from _HMC_ and credited to DWJ.

The stanza of poetry is from John Donne's "Song," the only verse left out of _HMC_.

There will be no more updates during the month of November. See my profile for further details.


	19. In which Michael has something to say

**Characters this chapter:** Howl, Sophie, Calcifer, Michael

**Rating:** T

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 19:** _In which Michael has something to say_

They made a sad gathering that evening. Howell stayed by the hearth, thinking, calculating, and feeling a bit sorry for himself; it was inevitable with the curse having caught up.

Michael and Sophie hovered nervously around him, far enough to avoid being snapped at for distracting him from thought, but close enough they could hear if he needed anything. It prevented Howell from having a talk with Calcifer, but he wasn't sure there was much to say just yet. The fire demon seemed to be doing his own brooding, going a thoughtful crimson and creeping under his stack of logs - though he did peer out now and again to check on Howell; it was quite comforting in a vaguely irritating way.

The unfortunate turn of events in Wales had put Sophie back into housemother mode. She seemed not to know what to do with herself, making him tea and then one bacon sandwich after another until Calcifer became quite annoyed, and Howell told her that was quite enough. That put her onto scrubbing the floor, at which point Michael, who had been hovering round as if he'd wanted to say something, fled upstairs. Howell waited until she'd worked her way to the hearth and was scrubbing doggedly round his feet, as if he were a piece of furniture. "Sophie, it's late," he said. "Why don't you go to bed?"

She ignored him, her face a mask of determination. "I don't suppose we need go see the King now," she ground out, putting her back into getting out a nonexistent stain right next to his chair. She did not look up at Howell as she spoke; it was as if she were muttering to herself as she cleaned, and perhaps she was. "After what's happened…no point any longer, is there?" At the last, she glanced up at him from the corner of her eye, a bit nervously, as if she expected the curse might cause him to spontaneously combust at any moment. On any other day, Howell would have been amused.

"On the contrary, it's just become vital that we go to see the King and execute my plan," he told her. "I shall need everything I've got just to escape the Witch. I can't have the King after me as well."

He could tell from the look on her face she thought he was being unreasonable and was about to argue. "No arguments," he warned her. The last thing he was in the mood for tonight was to be disagreed at by Sophie. "If you do indeed want to help me, the best thing you can do right now is get some rest. I need you in top form tomorrow to blacken my name to the King." His tone becoming petty and vaguely martyred, as he went on. "If, however, you do _not_ want to help me, perhaps I can refer you to the Witch for a bit of conspiracy. The two of you could work together to ruin me. Who knows? You might become fast friends through a common enemy."

Sophie sighed, aggravated. "Don't be childish." Slopping her scrub brush into the bucket, she gathered her skirts in preparation to get up from the floor. "Fine," she said, gruffly. "I'll do it." Howell looked down at her in surprise. He hadn't expected her to agree so quickly. "You can thank me if it works," she grumbled, and began to struggle to stand.

Howell stood and helped her to her feet, though she ignored the hand he held out to her for as long as she could. After her knees made a few painful cracks, however, she allowed him to give her a hand up, very regally not looking at him, as if he were the hired help of whom such a gesture was expected. Howell's sense of humour slowly started to return at Sophie's quirkiness. She picked up her bucket and went to dump the cloudy water in the kitchen sink.

Calcifer looked relieved Howell had stopped her before she'd got over to the grate. "Well done," he said in a hissing whisper.

Sophie couldn't have heard, but she spoke up as if she had. "Don't think you've escaped cleaning, Calcifer." Howell had to bite back a snicker at the look of dismay on the fire demon's face. "I'll have to finish scrubbing the floor when we get home tomorrow."

Howell spoke up on Calcifer's behalf, "You may well be too tired to go on one of your cleaning binges by the time we get back." He glanced down at the sparkling flagstones at his feet. "And surely the floor is clean enough by now. How often can a floor possibly need scrubbing, anyway?"

"Ten times a day, apparently," Calcifer grumbled.

"I heard that," Sophie said, stumping over to the hearth. "And you _would _think it clean enough," she told Howell, wagging her stick at him. She hobbled off to her cubbyhole under the stairs, muttering to herself about Wizards who were like filthy little boys who thought one pile of dirt just as clean as the next. Howell and Calcifer exchanged a look and Howell's face broke into a tentative smile, the first since he'd been hit with the curse.

He raised his voice just enough to carry over her muttering. "Good night, Sophie dear." There came a gravelly grumble in response, though he could not pick out specific words.

"Hot bath tomorrow morning?" Calcifer asked.

"Yes," Howell and Sophie both answered together. Amused for different reasons now, Howell turned just in time to see her startled expression and the beginnings of a blush before Sophie's face disappeared back behind the curtains that hid her bed.

"I actually meant _her_," the fire demon said, rolling his eyes at Howell's train of thought. His voice crackled too low for Sophie to hear. "Lecher. We all know _your_ bathing routine by now."

Howell chuckled as he crossed the room to retrieve a dusty bottle of wine from his secret hiding place under the bookcase. "Good night, Calcifer," he called out, tauntingly.

"You're in an awfully good mood for a man who was just cursed," the fire demon pointed out.

Howell could not express his gratitude to Calcifer for reminding him of this fact. It was miracle enough Sophie's endearing grumpiness had managed to make him forget for a few minutes. But he had no wish to spend his first cursed evening trading smart remarks back and forth with the fire demon, either, so he merely said, "I suppose some of us just bring out the best in even the bleakest of situations." He'd been thinking of Sophie, but Calcifer chose to see it another way.

"Humble as ever."

Howell took a few steps up the stairs. "I learnt from the best."

Calcifer made a face. "Oh no you don't. You're not going to pretend you weren't this way long before I met you. Now are you going to get upstairs and let Sophie get some rest, or do I have to set fire to your trousers?"

Howell smirked. "Same old Calcifer. Any excuse to set something on fire."

The fire demon shot a large spark at him that very nearly did catch on his clothes. "Upstairs," he spat playfully.

As Howell traipsed up the rest of the way, he saw Sophie peer out of the curtains to see what was going on. She had her nightshift on and had taken her hair down and braided it for bed. He paused at the top of the stairs, for a moment thinking she might be intending to chide Calcifer for nearly setting him on fire.

"Don't shoot sparks inside the house, Calcifer," she scolded. "But if you are going to set him on fire, at least wait until I can watch." The fire demon crackled, and Sophie glanced up at where Howell was leaning over the banister to show she knew he was there.

"So unloved," Howell intoned tragically. "None of you really appreciates what I do for you all."

He turned to go into his bedroom and heard her muttering behind him, "Just like a spoiled little boy. Honestly."

He couldn't resist running back to the rail to lean over. "Good night, Sophie," he called down in syrupy tones.

Rheumy blue eyes glanced up at him sharply. "Yes, you already said that," she told him, gruffly. And then, after a moment's hesitation, she added. "Good night, Howl." But she was no longer looking at him; her eyes were glued moodily to her bed under the stairs.

Howell waved at the grate before turning to go. "Good night, Calcifer."

"Good night, Howell."

When he finally made it into his bedroom, Howell curled up on the trunk by the window, summoning a dirty glass from under the bed and idly casting a cleaning spell as he gazed out at the yard. The light mood his exchange with Sophie and Calcifer had engendered in him quickly dissipated as the gravity of their predicament returned now he was alone.

Out in the yard, he noticed the hedge was trim and neat now; Gareth must have cut it. Gazing out "the front bedroom" window to Wales had the inevitable effect of drawing Howell's thoughts back to the visit he'd just had with his family. He couldn't decide which was worse, having Violet's curse catch up at last or being abused by his own sister, made to feel like an unwelcome guest in the home where he'd spent nearly ten years. Just as he was beginning to brood, there came a light knock at his door.

Without waiting for an answer, Michael stuck his head in. "Howl, I'm sorry but I need to talk to you." The unusual, strained notes in his voice caused Howell to turn round and look at his apprentice. The young man's face was flushed, a sure sign he was upset about something.

"It's all right, Michael," he told him. "Come in."

Michael slipped into the room and shut the door behind him, but he didn't stray from the doorway. He stared down at the floor, fists clenched, as if he were working himself up to something. Howell decided whatever it was, it looked to be something Michael had to manage on his own, so he waited patiently, pouring himself a glass of wine.

Finally, his apprentice said, "I've meant to speak to you about something." The look on his face was that of a rabbit determined to fight injustices, even should it mean facing a fox. Howell quirked an eyebrow. What on earth could this be about? His thoughts returned to the disapproving look he'd seen on the younger man's face earlier today, and Howell suddenly thought he knew what this was all about. Using one of his standard tactics of avoiding trouble, he cut Michael off before he could begin.

"It occurs to me that you may be wondering about some of my recent behaviour."

Michael shut his mouth, more comfortable with Howell leading the conversation, and nodded.

"Well the fact is," he continued, "Sophie has not been well lately."

The younger man's brow furrowed, either in worry or disbelief; Howell was not certain.

"It's true. Calcifer told me _when you left her alone_ the other day, she suffered some sort of attack."

Michael had looked guilty the moment Howell stressed the words "when you left her alone," just as Howell knew he would. Now he looked concerned, and Howell knew he had him. "Attack?"

"You remember what happened with the scarecrow."

Michael nodded.

"The first time it came calling, she was _alone_ in the castle. Calcifer said it gave her a terrible fright." The look in Howell's eyes implied it was partly Michael's fault for having left.

"Oh."

"Yes. So I've been a bit more careful of her, recently. Worried about her health, you know." He held out one hand, palm-up, as he finished to show that's all it had been, and imply it was, therefore, nothing.

Michael looked at him quietly for a moment. "Is that why you held her in your arms as if to kiss her yesterday morning?"

Howell blinked. He hadn't even thought that his apprentice must have been watching them through that. Caught, he attempted to laugh it off. "What an absurd thing. I, kiss Sophie? Really, Michael. She's old enough to be my grandmother!"

His apprentice did not miss a beat. "I used to think that, too. But you always knew. I can tell, now I think back."

Howell feigned innocence. "I can't think what you mean. Tell what, Michael?"

Colour was rising in the young man's cheeks. He knew Howell was having him on. "Look. Just don't go falling in love with her like you always do." Although he was becoming angry at Howell's deception, Michael was clearly distraught at having to speak to him this way. Confronting him seemed to upset his apprentice enough that he had to turn away and pick at the peeling plaster of the wall before continuing. "I...I care about Sophie. I don't want you to just drop her and naff off like you always do. She'll leave, and I...I like having her here."

Howell didn't know what to say. This was new territory in their semi-older brother/younger brother relationship. All the lies he could have used at this point would have been transparent. So he didn't. "So do I," Howell answered softly, exhaling the words in a sigh of defeat.

Sensing he had the advantage, Michael whirled round and led the charge. "Would you just tell me what's going on?" When Howell returned a blank look, his apprentice relented a bit. "**Please.** You've got yourself in a lot of trouble this time, and I... I feel like I deserve to know what's going on. All morning I was defending you, I had to wonder... I wasn't even sure who I was defending by the end."

Warning bells went off in Howell's head. "Whom," he corrected, absently. He sat up leisurely and put his glass down on the window ledge before turning a carefully nonchalant gaze toward his apprentice. Then he asked very casually, "Michael, what are you talking about?"

The young man took a deep breath, as if this were the moment he'd been dreading. As he exhaled, his shoulders sagged into a defeated slouch. "I...know Sophie's sister," he mumbled, as if hoping his master might not hear.

Howell's eyes widened in surprise. "Lettie Hatter?" Michael nodded, and the way he nodded made the Wizard notice how reluctant his apprentice was to mention Lettie to him. This, added to the uncomfortable blush darkening Michael's cheeks gave Howell a sneaking suspicion as to just who that "someone else" had been who'd won Lettie's affections. He felt as though he'd been stabbed in the Forum. _Et tu, Michael?_ But all he said aloud was, "...I see."

His apprentice looked up at him again, driven on by something akin to anger. "I'm not sure you really do, Howl. You never seem to when it comes to things like this." Howell was taken aback, but remained silent. This was turning out to be a rare occasion indeed, and he was morbidly intrigued as to what else Michael had to say. "You've really upset them." And now he could see the younger man was angry. His face had gone quite blotchy. "Why would you say things like that? You made it sound like you'd kidnapped Sophie."

Howell was rarely embarrassed by his own behaviour, so it was an odd sensation to feel now as he recalled his villainous rudeness of the day before. "Oh," he huffed a laugh. "Did I?"

Michael rubbed his furrowed brow, a gesture of discomfort and frustration. "Yes, you did. You made it sound as though you were some evil sorcerer who kidnaps maidens and does unseemly things to them." Howell smiled slowly and was about to say that he _was_, but Michael railroaded over him. "It's not funny. I can spread rumours like that when I don't believe them. But after talking with Lettie and seeing how you've been acting with Sophie lately..."

Howell leaned back against the wall and stared up at the spider-riddled ceiling beams, keeping his amusement to himself. "You know I'm evil, Michael," he told him, calmly. "I'm vile. You've seen for yourself the sorts of things I do."

"I know that you can't seem to truly love anyone, no matter how hard you try," Michael answered frankly. "But you're not evil. Just. Just cowardly and a bit self-centered."

Howell could think of no response for this uncomfortably accurate summation of him.

After a moment, Michael realised there was no jocular remark forthcoming. He sighed and looked at the floor again. His apprentice was nearly as bad with confrontation as Howell was. "You still haven't answered my question," he said, finally.

Nearly being able to _feel _himself being pinned down, Howell took the opportunity to wander casually in the direction of his bookcase. "That reminds me, Michael. That study book I said I would loan you on riddles..." He took his time perusing the shelves for the correct book before pulling it down and turning to offer it to his apprentice. "Here. You'd better take it before I forget aga-" Howell's sentence evaporated when he saw the look on Michael's face; he was very nearly glowering. Apparently, he was having none of Howell's attempt to distract him. Which was unfortunate.

"**Why** did you tell the other Lettie Hatter and Mrs. Fairfax that Sophie belongs to you now?"

Howell sighed. Apparently this was just not his day for slithering out. "Wishful thinking, I suppose." Gazing down at the book he held, Howell's expression went vaguely dreamy as his vivid imagination began to explore the thought.

"No!" Michael said, and his hand made a chopping motion in the air. "I've already said. You're not allowed to think you're in love with Sophie. You've already upset the whole family. You're lucky my Lettie's the level-headed one. She stopped them storming the castle, but only just."

Howell choked on a laugh at the mental image accompanying this suggestion. "Did they really?"

"It's not funny!" Michael was so cross, he began to gesticulate as he spoke. "All I wanted was to go into the village and see my Lettie this morning, but I spent the whole visit arguing in your defence! Now I'm not even sure why I did it!" He seemed to have finally had it with Howell and turned to go.

"Just a moment, Michael," Howell said, gently.

His apprentice froze, and after a short inner debate, turned back just enough to peer at the older man out the corner of his eye.

Howell opened his arms, a gesture of contrition. "So you know...there are no hard feelings."

Michael turned round, looking perplexed and still cross. "What?"

Howell's lips quirked in a tiny, not quite rueful smile. "As far as I'm concerned, the best man won."

His apprentice stared at him uncomprehendingly, looking as though he was trying to work out what sort of joke Howell was making at his expense _this_ time.

He tried a different tactic. "You must really care for Lettie to get so cross with me. I'm sure you'll make her much happier than ever I could have."

Michael blinked, murmuring, "Lettie...?" It seemed to take a few moments to register. Then he exclaimed, "Oh!" and, much to Howell's surprise, began to laugh. "You thought I meant..." But the laughter grew, interrupting what it was he was attempting to say. Michael tried several more times to say whatever it was, but somehow the humour of the situation seemed to build and build for him until he was kneeling on the floor, breathless, with tears streaming down his face.

Though Howell enjoyed making a spectacle of himself, he detested being laughed at. "Good grief, Michael," he snapped, quite put out. "I was merely trying to be sportsmanlike. That's the last time I show _you_ the courtesy."

"No," Michael said through the dissipating gales of laughter, which seemed to have done him a world of good. No longer tense, he held up a hand for Howell to wait. He did, but only because tossing Michael out of his room would have been more of a bother.

The younger man got himself under control within a few moments and wiped his eyes and nose on one moth-eaten sleeve. Howell grimaced, but said nothing. "You thought I meant the other Lettie."

He didn't think he could have heard Michael correctly. "The...other...Lettie?"

"But I thought you were asking about _my_ Lettie. The one who works at Cesari's."

"Cesari's?" Suddenly Howell began to understand the recent influx of baked goods they'd been experiencing. "But Lettie doesn't work at Cesari's."

Michael nodded affirmatively. "The other Lettie doesn't."

Howell looked at his apprentice very carefully, wondering if the trip into another world might have been too much of a strain for his young mind. "So...what you're telling me is...there is a Lettie who works at Cesari's...and then there's the other one."

Michael nodded.

"And they're _both_ Sophie's sisters?"

Michael nodded again.

"Sophie has TWO sisters..."

Another nod.

"And they're **both** named Lettie Hatter."

Michael was nodding so much, it was a wonder his head hadn't fallen off. "That's right."

Howell looked at him in profound silence for a few moments. "That's **mad**."

Michael grinned. "As Hatters."

Howell wasn't used to his apprentice making jokes, and it caught him off guard. His laugh sounded startled, like a goose that has just been robbed of eggs. "Touché," he said, thoughtfully, and considered this new information for a moment. "Sophie, it seems, is full of surprises. And, more shockingly, it sounds as though she may be the sanest member of her family."

"Oh, no." Michael was shaking his head. "That is, they all seem quite normal." When Howell looked at him incredulously, he continued, "I thought perhaps it was just something to do with the parents." He made a gesture as if winding a clock in the air beside his temple. "You know."

Howell raised his eyes heavenward. Mad in-laws were all he needed just now. "Oh, WONderful."

"Though I haven't really met your Lettie," Michael went on, apologetically. "Mine's _quite_ sane. And intelligent. And funny. And when she laughs..." He seemed to have gone off into his own little world, smiling as though he might have knocked his head against something rather hard, but didn't seem to mind it. "She has a dimple right here." And he poked his cheek to show where it was.

Howell leaned his chin on his fist and took in Michael's lovestruck state. It was bound to happen eventually, he supposed. All boys had to grow up someday. "So," he began, relieved to finally manage to shift the focus of the conversation, "how long have you been..._seeing_ your Lettie?"

Michael beamed, his blush taking on an altogether different hue. "We confessed our feelings to one another two weeks ago."

"Congratulations." Howell smiled, fondly.

Michael scratched the back of his head, pleased but self-conscious. Then his expression grew sober once more. "That's why..." He looked up at Howell, regretfully. "Well, I'm really caught in the middle, aren't I? I mean, you're my master, but...Lettie's my love. When we're married, they'll be my family. So I'm obligated--"

Howell cut in expertly to derail him again. "Planning marriage so soon?"

It worked. Michael 's gaze turned inward as he explained what was clearly a plan he'd spent a good deal of time thinking through. "Well, we have so long to wait until we're free to marry. We've got years of our apprenticeships left, so it doesn't hurt to plan ahead."

"I see," said Howell. He supposed Michael really was the type to commit to his first love. Though he found the idea abhorrent for himself, he admired the quality in Michael. It was very traditionally romantic.

His apprentice looked vaguely hurt. "You don't approve?"

"No, not at all," Howell said. And when Michael's expression showed he'd taken this to mean, 'No, I don't approve at all,' Howell waved a hand, as if to dispel the misunderstanding. "What I mean is, of course you're young. But if you already know what you want, I rather envy you, in a way."

Michael looked plainly stunned. After a moment of silent workings, his lips and jaw were finally able to form the words, "Thank you."

Howell nodded. "And if you ever need someone to talk to...to…ask advice about...things..." He let the sentence go as his apprentice blushed, clearly taking his meaning. "Well, there is an older, more experienced man at hand who would be delighted to lend you his expertise."

Michael was suddenly unable to look at him. He managed a small nod. "Th-thanks."

Howell walked back to the window to retrieve his wine. "I'm glad we had this little talk, Michael. Now, if don't mind, it is getting rather late..."

His apprentice looked up and his expression became panicked, as if he'd forgotten something important. "No, wait."

Howell hoped he would not remember.

"About Sophie..."

_Damn. _But he drawled in the most nonchalant tone he could manage, "Yes?"

"You have to do _some_thing, Howl. What I told Lettie this morning will only put them off for a bit. It's not as if they'll just take my word that you're really a nice chap after what you said. And Lettie told me they haven't seen Sophie in _weeks_." An idea seemed to strike him. "Perhaps we could have them to visit. That might be nice for everyone." He smiled tentatively, pleased with the idea.

Howell shook his head. "You're forgetting one important element in that plan, Michael."

"What?" Clearly he thought Howell was just being difficult again. "Lettie and I could bring some cakes from Cesari's...it would be fine."

"I don't think it would be," Howell said. "Haven't you wondered why Sophie hasn't written her family since she came to live here? She's never even tried to visit them, apart from that once."

Michael looked thoughtful. "And that was only because we'd heard you were courting her sister," he admitted after a moment.

Howell had had his suspicions, but he was pleased to have them confirmed. Calcifer had been right, the old blighter. He smiled to himself.

"But I don't understand, Howl," Michael was saying, "Why?"

"You'd have to ask her that, I'm afraid. I've given up trying to understand how that woman's mind works. Though if I had to hazard a guess, I suppose it might be that she doesn't want to worry them, looking as she does just now."

Michael was pulling at his lower lip, something he often did in contemplation. "Lettie said she's always worried more about others than herself…"

"I had noticed," Howell said, ruefully. That was what their first fight had been about, after all.

"Well... " Michael looked to be torn between the alternatives. In his heart of hearts, he knew as well as Howell did that if the Hatters came calling, they would take Sophie with them when they left. "But doesn't she belong with her family?"

Howell chuckled and gestured with his wineglass. "She's not a stray dog, Michael. We can't just send her home now we've found her real owners."

Michael pulled a face.

"It's her decision," Howell said, and the statement had a finality he hadn't intended. Suddenly he felt it was only a matter of time before Sophie left them. He felt empty already.

This seemed to bring Michael full circle, for suddenly he was back to his original argument. "Exactly. What you told her family was a lie."

Howell sighed heavily, exhausted from so many failed attempts to slither out. "Of course it was a lie." Some days, Howell felt he could count the number of times he'd told the truth on one hand.

"You're not keeping her here."

He favoured Michael with a wry, not-quite-pained smile. "Do you really think I could, if Sophie were determined to leave?"

"I suppose not," Michael said, thoughtfully. He paused before going on. "You also threatened to marry Sophie. Was that just to frighten them?"

Howell sat back and stared up at the canopy over his bed, waxing sullen from all the times he'd been pinned down today. "_I_ should be the one who's frightened by a statement like that."

Michael sat down on the window ledge and stared at Howell with curiosity and concern. Then he asked, more softly. "You really…love her the way she is now? All…old like that?" Then a thought occurred to him. "Or can you see through the spell?"

Howell did not like to be pinned down. Again. Even when the person doing so meant well. "I have seen what she really looks like, if that's what you're asking."

Michael folded his arms, disappointed. "So you really _are_ just doing what you always do."

"Of course I am." But it was plain from Howell's tone he was just going along with Michael now as he stared out the window, pretending not to care.

Michael noticed the shift in mood and said nothing more for some time. Howell was ready to hope he would give up again and leave, when he said, "Sorry about the curse." Howell shrugged. What a silly thing for Michael to be apologising for. It was so like him. On any other day, he probably would have said so, but he felt too drained for philanthropy just now. "Can you break it?"

"I'd better." Why was the night sky overcast in Wales? Howell suddenly needed to see the stars.

"What will happen if you can't?" The ugly possibilities hovered unspoken between them, ominously. Howell couldn't answer. He refused to.

He covered his face with his hands. "I don't know, Michael. But if I don't break it, something could happen to Sophie."

Michael blanched. "Because you love her?"

Howell was suddenly becoming very annoyed. "Would you stop saying that?"

"It's true, isn't it?"

"Why would you think so?" he snapped, taking his hands away from his face and scowling. "I thought I was just doing what I always do."

"No." Michael shook his head. "This isn't what you always do. I realise that now I've thought about it a bit more. I was wrong."

"Well then keep it to yourself," Howell told him testily.

Michael stared at him as some inner conflict raged. Then he said, quietly, "I have to tell them _something_, Howl."

Howell smiled, but the expression was closer to a grimace of pain than a grin of amusement. "Before they storm the castle?"

Michael nodded. "Something like. I don't think it's a good idea to get on the wrong side of Hatter women."

Howell did laugh, then. "Knowing two of them, I'd have to agree. If your Lettie is half as bad as the other one…"

"She's not bad," Michael said, defensively. "Just a little…stubborn sometimes." And then he added, almost as a regretful afterthought, "I think it's charming."

Howell turned to look at him properly. "Do you?"

Michael nodded, not looking entirely certain.

Howell smiled wryly at him. "When were you planning to tell me you'd fallen in love?"

Michael ducked his head, self-conscious, and shrugged.

"So." He folded his hands, glad to be the questioner instead of the questioned, finally. "When will I get to meet this Lettie of yours?"

For some reason, this sent Michael into a panic again. "Well. I mean. I thought you said Sophie's family couldn't come until she was ready!"

"We could go down to Cesari's together sometime," Howell offered. "You could introduce me."

"I don't think this is really a good time." When Howell looked to him for an explanation, Michael continued, "That is, you're not their favourite person just now, if you see what I mean."

Howell considered this. "You have a point. But that should change, once I make my apologies and explain a bit to the other Lettie. "

"Oh, will you?" Michael looked terribly relieved.

"I suppose there's no help for it," Howell said, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Apologies were always such messy affairs.

"Jee, thanks!" And suddenly his apprentice was smiling again. "You don't know what this means to me, Howl."

"I believe I've a vague idea, Michael." Was the young man really unaware of the uncharacteristic production he'd just made over the issue? _It _**_must_**_ be love_, he thought.

"Thanks again," his apprentice said, and finally got up to leave. "Well, good night!" He waved from the doorway and disappeared off to his own bedroom.

It was not until he was gone Howell realised Michael had weaseled out of introducing him to his Lettie. He couldn't think why.

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**Author's Note:** There actually _is_ a quote from HMC in this chapter. Find it, if you can.


	20. Interlude, with Pants

**Characters this chapter:** Howl, Michael, Mari, Megan, Sophie, Calcifer

**Rating:** T

**Author's Note:** No, I didn't die. Yes, I'm going to finish this.

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**Chapter 20:** _Interlude with Pants_

After Michael went to bed, Howell decided to forego his glass of wine and was surprisingly able to get to sleep without much trouble after all. Their little heart to heart had distracted him enough to push aside his real troubles for a few hours.

Unfortunately, when he awoke they were right back with him. Howell gazed out at the early morning sunlight on the yard and thought about what his next move should be. He listened as Sophie ran water for her bath and thought about all there was to do today with their visits in Kingsbury. As busy as they would be, there was nothing he could do about the curse just now. Howell knew he would be too preoccupied worrying over Sophie and whether or not Mrs. Pentstemmon would take to her and what his old tutor's prognosis would be for removing the last of Sophie's curse, not to mention her performance for King Rolland and any accidental impressions they might make at the Palace.

If he thought about it too much, he could easily tie his mind and stomach in knots. Therefore, Howell decided because there was SO much to worry about, he was going to give himself a mental holiday and simply worry about none of it at all.

After about an hour, he heard the sounds of Michael waking up and banging round his room next door. When his apprentice walked past Howell's bedroom door on his way to the stairs, he popped his head in. It looked as though their talk last night had done Michael a world of good; his face was practically glowing as he smiled playfully. "I get first shower," he said.

Howell waved a hand at him to show there would be no argument on that count today. "Just make sure Sophie's out of the bath, first."

Michael made a face. "Howl. Ew!"

Howell chuckled. "You might not say that if you knew what she really looks like."

Michael shook himself as if he'd just been doused with something sticky and unpleasant. "That's…" He paused for a moment, unable to find the right word before declaring again, "Ew!" He shook his head at his master's singular sense of humour and made a hasty exit before it became any worse.

Howell lay in bed a while longer, trying not to think. Shortly after the shower went on for Michael, he saw Mari hop out into the yard to play on the swings. Watching her playing alone in the yard, Howell felt a sudden stab of panic at the thought of Miss Angorian lurking only a few miles away. He'd left the gateway to Wales open mostly for selfish reasons, but also as bait. Now that they'd taken it, Howell wasn't so certain he'd really considered all of the potential ramifications, the risks.

He worried enough about mundane things, like the possibility of Mari falling from the swing and hurting herself. Putting her at greater risk seemed to him a completely mad thing to have done. Perhaps he'd never truly believed Violet could find Wales. He couldn't take back that poor decision now. They were there, in Wales. And he was not. Suddenly, all of the wards he'd put on Megan's house didn't seem enough.

He watched Mari playing long enough to make sure Megan was not right behind her. Then he used a spot of magic and a bit of elbow grease to jimmy the window open and call down to her. "Is that my cariad I see playing on the swings this morning?"

Just about to sit down, Mari spun around, her mouth forming a small 'o' as she looked up at the "front bedroom" window and saw her uncle peeping out. "Uncle Howell!"

He put a finger to his lips to show this was to be a covert exchange. "Mum's not around, is she?"

"No, she's vacuuming," Mari said "That's why I came outside to play. I couldn't hear the telly." She wandered over to stand beneath the window. "It's your castle inside, isn't it?"

"Clever pixie," Howell said. "You always know the difference."

"It's because tad said if you came again, he was going to give you something." She shook a small fist to show the gesture her father had made.

No, Howell was not sorry he'd missed seeing his old chum Gareth last night.

"Then he told mum to tell you to leave next time. So I didn't think you'd come again soon." She looked unhappy about this, but resigned. It broke Howell's heart.

"I'm sorry, cariad. You know I think about you all the time."

Her little face lit up. "But _now_ you're talking to me."

Howell nodded. "But don't tell mum this time, if she asks why you were talking to the window again."

Mari shook her head firmly 'no.' "I hate spankings. 'Specially for telling the truth!"

"It's my fault," Howell said. "I tell you an awful lot of things your parents don't understand. Perhaps I shouldn't."

Mari's face fell. "No! I believe you, Uncle Howell! I don't care if mum doesn't like it. I won't tell."

Howell felt guilty all the same, but he smiled down at her. "You're a good girl, Mari."

The pearls of her little teeth shone up at him. "How's your _cariad cywir_, Uncle Howell? Is she still old? Did you defeat the witch yet?"

Howell laughed in surprise; it was a terribly ironic question, given what had happened yesterday. "No, cariad. I'm afraid not. In fact, it looks as though I may have quite a battle with the witch coming up."

Mari nodded, as if she knew this to be the way of things. "It's all right, Uncle Howell. I know you'll win."

He smiled down at her. He wished he could be as confident.

"I'm sure you're right," he lied. The fact he wasn't was one of the reasons he'd opened the window. "But there's something I need you to do for me, just in case."

"What?" Mari asked, eagerly.

"Just a moment." Howell ducked back inside and rummaged through the top drawer of his dressing table. After a bit of searching, he came out with a small locket with which one of the previous loves of his life had gifted him. Hurriedly removing the portrait inside, he cast a protection and finding spell on it before returning to the window.

"The vacuum's gone off," Mari warned, when he reappeared.

"All right, very quickly then," he said. "I've a present for you. And I need you to wear it all the time, right? Think you can you do that for me, cariad?"

Mari looked a little disappointed. "That's too easy."

Her eager heroism wrung a smile from him. "Then I know you'll be able to do it. Catch." Howell conjured up a fancy jewelry box for the locket and attached a tiny parachute before letting it drop out the window.

Mari giggled as she watched her present float down. When she caught the box, the parachute turned into a flower, and she applauded, delighted. "Oh," she cried, suddenly drawing back from the window and looking toward the back door. "Mum's coming."

"Hurry and put it on. I'll hide the box and flower in your room," Howell told her. He watched her do as she'd asked, and then prepared to take his leave before Megan came out and tried to understand how her bothersome younger brother was hanging out the window of a room he was not inside of. "Be a good girl today, Mari."

She looked up, panicked she might be caught but obviously forlorn at his departure. "I really miss you, Uncle Howell."

No one could break your heart quite like a child. Howell cast a quick spell on the back door to make it stick, giving them an extra moment for good-byes. "I miss you, too, cariad. But if you wear that necklace, it will be like I'm always there. All you have to do is think of me, and I'll hear you. So if anything ever happens, or you just want to tell me something, that's all you have to do, all right?"

Mari nodded and smiled. "All right."

"There's a good girl." He blew her a kiss and pulled his head and shoulders back into the castle.

Megan came out the door just as he was shutting the window. He was proud of his niece when he watched her calmly put her hands behind her back and lie about what she'd been doing. You couldn't keep a good Jenkins down.

Howell realised the shower had gone off while he'd been busy. "Breakfast!" Sophie called from downstairs, her brittle old voice sounding put out to have to call him down for once. "Calcifer gets it if you're not down by the time we finish." Howell heard her mutter something afterward that was no doubt another insult or complaint against him and smiled. Perhaps he would have breakfast in his dressing gown this morning; a little fun to raise his spirits for the grueling day ahead.

When he arrived downstairs in nothing but the ornate red and gold brocade dressing gown he'd pulled on over the pants he'd slept in, Sophie was very careful to ignore him, but Michael gave him a dirty look.

Howell winked at him and turned his chair around backward to straddle it as he often did fully clothed. Michael nearly choked on his milk.

Howell stared thoughtfully at Sophie for a few moments as she calmly and quietly ate her breakfast, attempting to be annoying enough to get her attention.

He felt a foot impact with his chair leg and saw Michael's face contort with pain before going quite red. His apprentice managed mostly to contain a yelp in honour of his stubbed toes, but Sophie noticed and looked up nevertheless, her eyes immediately settling accusingly on Howell, as if whatever had happened must have been his fault.

Howell returned a pleasant smile for this unjust accusation and deftly changed the subject. "Surely you're not going to wear _that_ today."

Sophie looked down at her ratty old grey dress and the cooking apron she'd thrown over it. Then she made a sour face at him for attempting to tell her her business. "I wasn't going to fry breakfast dressed in that finery you brought home yesterday."

Considering this, Howell nodded. "Good thinking." An aggravated snort was her only response.

"**I** haven't got dressed in those fancy clothes yet, either," Michael pointed out.

"Yes, but you're not the one he feels requires his _attention_," Calcifer put in, helpfully.

"Calcifer," Howell said, in a warning tone.

Michael sniggered.

Howell decided his best course of action was to ignore them. Hopefully they wouldn't say anything more revealing. And thankfully, Sophie was very dense. She kept aloof for the remainder of breakfast, refusing to participate in their conversation as if whatever they were on about was unworthy of her, which of course it was.

Leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand, Howell watching her finally get up and go to the hearth to feed Calcifer the untouched portion of her breakfast, which was at least half of it. "Not hungry this morning?" he asked.

Sophie ignored him and hobbled in a stately manner to her cubbyhole. Apparently his previous comment on her attire had offended--not that offending Sophie was at all difficult to do.

"She's nervous," Calcifer explained. "And would you please sit on that chair properly?" he hissed in a lower tone. "I'm tired of looking at your pants!"

Howell gave Calcifer a _look_ while Michael bent over his toast, attempting to hide the fact he was giggling madly.

Rising from the table with dignity and grace, Howell straightened his dressing gown and blatantly left the rest of his breakfast untouched as he walked away. Calcifer looked longingly at the plate where it remained on the table, its surface glistening with egg yolk and greasy ham. "It's time I should get in the shower in any case," Howell said meaningfully.

"Brat," Calcifer spat.

"Sophie dear, there's no need to be nervous," Howell called out, as he approached the stairs on his way to the bath. He thought he might have heard a grunt of response. "Blackening my name is the sort of task you were born to do. I'm sure it will come quite naturally." This time there was a quiet 'hmph.' Howell smiled. "And the King is hardly intimidating at all, really. You'll see what I mean when we get to the Palace."

Sophie's respectable nose poked out from between the curtains, followed by her head. "He's still the King!" she protested, scowling for no other reason than it was Howell she was looking at.

He idly wondered if there was something quite wrong with him that he was curious what she was wearing behind the curtain at that moment.

In response to her protest, Howell raised his hands and shrugged in a 'if you must' gesture. "You're only making it harder on yourself." She gave him an annoyed look before disappearing back inside her personal space.

He noticed Michael and Calcifer were whispering about something and turned round to look. His apprentice had scraped the remains of his breakfast onto the fire demon and was doing the same with Howell's plate now. They were chattering on, and Michael was giggling, and Howell had the distinct impression whatever joke they were enjoying was being made at his expense. He took his cue from Sophie and rose above it. "Hot water, Calcifer," he called out, regally.

"You know, you don't really have to say that EVERY time," Calcifer griped between gobblings and munchings of the leftovers. Howell disappeared into the bathroom without another word, a closing of the door with finality his only response. Calcifer said something he couldn't make out, and Michael giggled again.

Howell was annoyed. He did not like being talked of behind his back in his own home, much less laughed at. Perhaps he and Michael needed to have another chat. But first, he had to worry about getting them all to Mrs. Pentstemmon's on time. Howell stepped under the boiling spray of water and let it wash away the stirrings of his temper.

He thought of gentler things, like the fact he was looking forward to seeing Michael and Sophie in the new clothes he'd bought for them. He refused to think about the problem back in Wales. Having given Mari the locket made him feel quite a lot better.

Howell pondered whether it might be a good idea to give something to Neil as well. His nephew was in the most danger, after all, seeing the fire demon at school every day.

As he washed his hair, Howell considered how he might manage this. He could hardly tell Neil straight out what he was doing, the way he had Mari. Neil didn't believe any longer, and would also no doubt not take kindly to a gift of jewelry. Perhaps a trinket that had something to do with one of his computer games… Either way, Howell decided a trip to Wales tomorrow was in order to soothe his troubled mind.


	21. In which Howell becomes very nervous

**Characters this chapter:** Howl, Michael, Sophie, Hunch, Mrs. Pentstemmon

**Rating:** K+

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**Chapter 21:** _In which Howell becomes very nervous_

Knowing he was likely to be deposited in the Court once more while Sophie had her interview with the King, Howell spent extra time getting ready. He didn't realise just how MUCH time he'd spent until he pulled out his gold pocket-watch for a quick shine and saw the time. They didn't have long before they were due at Mrs. Pentstemmon's. Howell rushed to complete the finishing touches to his appearance, not only because he'd promised to be prompt, but because he'd learned long ago--the hard way--how intolerant his tutor was of tardiness.

Finished and perfumed, Howell raced out of the bathroom to gather up his brood. Sophie was sitting dressed and ready by the hearth, talking with Calcifer, but Michael was nowhere to be found. "MICHAEL!" Howell bawled. "We're going to be late!" To his relief, his apprentice clattered down the stairs a moment later, fully dressed, if a bit rumpled. Howell made an impatient gesture for him to come over so that he could fix him. As he straightened Michael's lapels and used a bit of magic to smooth the stubborn wrinkles in the velvet, his apprentice turned to compliment Sophie, who stood waiting for them, on her new look.

Howell glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw what Michael had said was true. The clothes fit her perfectly, in manner as well as size. He had made excellent choices, as always. "She does me credit," he said. "Apart from that awful old stick." Howell realised he should have got her a proper cane while he was in Kingsbury yesterday. But he hadn't thought she would actually take that dreadful old thing.

Howell was thinking of Sophie more and more as her true age, and therefore no longer considered points such as her needing a walking stick. At his best guess--which was admittedly better than most--the one she always had with her was really more of an emotional crutch at this point than anything. She didn't need it physically after what he and Calcifer had done the other day. It was a filthy old battered thing and looked as though she'd just picked it up in the road one day. Knowing Sophie, that was not out of the realm of possibility. Howell wished she could be persuaded to give it up, but he knew Sophie well enough by now to know that attempting to do so would have been a waste of breath.

"Some people," Sophie sniffed, "are thoroughly self-centered. This stick goes with me." Of course she would not leave it behind. "I need it for moral support."

If a day ever came that Howell was wrong about Sophie, he would be surprised. Knowing it was futile to argue the point further, he merely rolled his eyes heavenward to express his sentiments. With Sophie, one had to pick one's battles.

Seeing that they were all ready, he walked to the door and spun the knob red blob-down. Calcifer would turn it green-down, after they were out, as part of their predetermined safety measures. "Come along, mother." He held the door for Sophie, who glowered at him in silent protest as she stepped through to Kingsbury.

Predictably, once she was out she immediately had to turn round and nose about whatever the entrance looked like from the outside, as this was her first time stepping through the Kingsbury door. Howell was amused, but her blocking the door did interfere somewhat with his and Michael's exit. As his apprentice hovered on the threshold, uncertain of which way to step around Sophie, Howell gave him a good shove and stepped out behind him, making eye contact with Calcifer and nodding to remind him of what to do once they'd left before shutting the door behind them. Apparently his encouragement to Michael to move had caused him to nearly stumble into a pile of horse dung which lay to one side of the door, for when he turned round Howell found his apprentice glaring at him most ungratefully.

He ignored Michael and moved to stand in front of Sophie, obscuring her snooping view; a handy tactic for obtaining her undivided attention. "Before you ask, it's really just a disused stable." Sophie looked round them at the mews and her respectable nose finally caught the scent of horse on the wind--and the heap near Michael's foot. She nodded, not approvingly, but in acknowledgement of Howell having answered the question she had just been about to ask. He tried not to feel too smug that he had anticipated her. Sophie was nothing if not predictable, after all.

Howell led the procession to Mrs. Pentstemmon's, walking ahead of the other two not only because he was the one who knew the way, but because his legs were longer and he felt the pressure of their imminent tardiness pushing him forward. An extra incentive to walk briskly was that afternoon was already wearing on, and the sun down here in Kingsbury was boilingly hot. Howell couldn't wait to get indoors where it was cool. He heard Michael huffing and puffing behind him to keep up, but Sophie seemed to manage without too much difficulty, much to his surprise. When he cast a glance over his shoulder to discreetly check on her, Sophie was stumping right along with her stick, like a venerable steam engine, looking vaguely round at the extravagant buildings and gardens they passed.

Thinking of something, Howell slowed just enough to give Michael a break and allow her to catch up to him. "By the way, Mrs. Pentstemmon will call you Mrs. Pendragon. Pendragon's the name I go under here."

With her usual tact and aplomb, Sophie demanded to know why, as if it such a thing could serve no purpose but to satisfy his craving for dishonesty.

"For disguise," Howell told her, his tone indicating it should be obvious. Even laypeople knew about the Law of Names. But apparently Sophie was not one of them, another mark in favour of his belief that she could not possibly be a witch. Still, he would leave the final verdict to be determined by Mrs. Pentstemmon's trained eye. Her predictions were so seldom wrong that one could say they never were without a guilty conscience.

His mind once more on their conversation, Howell smirked to himself, thinking how wonderful it was there existed a world where he could filch the name of the most famous king in history for his own and no one would be the wiser. "Pendragon's a lovely name," he continued. "Much better than Jenkins." Howell thought it rather unfair to be named 'son of John' when his father had, in fact, not been named John at all. (Regrettably, his father's name was even more common as Welsh names go, having been named for the patron saint of Wales.) He blamed the Flemish for aiding the Norman invasion of Wales in the Dark Ages.

They reached Sedge Court at last, and Howell gladly stepped into the shade of the high old townhouses as they turned onto the narrow street. Sophie was looking at him as if she were affronted by his last statement. Perhaps she was still put out with him for commenting on her old grey dress this morning. Or perhaps she was just being argumentative for the sake of it; it would be just like her. After a meaningful glare, she told him that she had always thought a plain name quite adequate

Howell's memory, photographic for a clever quip, recalled Michael's joke of the night before and, without missing a beat, he replied, **"We can't all be Mad Hatters."**

When Sophie did not respond, even with her usual snort of temper, Howell looked at her to make certain she was all right. She didn't look well; perhaps the heat was getting to her. There was a spell in Howell's suit preventing him sweating to death in Kingsbury. He realised now he should have done Michael and Sophie the same courtesy. Now that they'd reached Mrs. Pentstemmon's, it would be pointless, but Howell made a mental note to cast it on his companions before they left.

Hunch answered the door in his butler's livery and stood aside while their small progress traipsed inside. Howell clapped him on the arm, making a show of not having seen him for some time to prevent Sophie knowing he'd been just the day before, setting her up. "Hunch old man, delightful to see you again!"

Hunch's expression remained implacable as ever as his stone-grey eyes drifted over Sophie and Michael, attempting to discern in his own quiet, observant way why Howell was behaving in this manner. Howell would have introduced him to Sophie and Michael, but of course that would have been completely improper. So instead, he chattered away at the old gentleman as they were led down the hall, Howell's nervousness showing in the sheer number of bad puns and pointless jocular remarks he made to Hunch between the door and the stairs. On the way, he saw Michael surreptitiously attempting to wipe sweat from his face onto his brand new custom-made suit and quickly drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to him.

At the stairs, Hunch bowed and left them in the hands of a little page boy Howell had never seen before, who took them up the stairs to the drawing room. Howell was relieved Mrs. Pentstemmon was feeling well enough to receive them properly today. In fact, he noted upon entering the room and seeing her seated in her throne-like chair Mrs. Pentstemmon looked to have dressed even more formally than usual this morning, wearing her most expensive silk and extravagant gold coronet. Howell took it as a compliment that she had gone to so much trouble to meet Sophie.

She greeted them as they entered, pretending too as if they had not just spoken the day before. Howell crossed the room in two long strides and took her proffered hand. As he bent to kiss it, he noticed Michael had come in with them and was standing just inside the doorway, gaping like a fisherman's son at the delicate finery of Mrs. Pentstemmon's decor. Howell's manner with Mrs. Pentstemmon remained courtly and calm, but behind his back he gestured wildly for Michael to get back outside with the other page boy. He had spent so much time yesterday preparing Sophie for her interview with the King that he had not given Michael a refresher course on the simple etiquette needed to act a proper servant. It was an oversight he regretted now, as his apprentice took FAR too long to get Howell's point and finally left. The one saving grace was that at least Michael had had the sense to back out of the room, as a servant should.

Relieved that that small hurdle of protocol had been jumped, Howell straightened and turned partway to introduce Sophie properly, gesturing grandly as he did so as if revealing the prize behind the velvet curtain. Unfortunately, Sophie immediately proceeded to embarrass him by cowering at the other end of the room like the frightened mouse he'd first met. Howell waved her over to come join them, and when she did not begin to make her way, he had to flap his hand at her in a manner both unsubtle and uncouth. This was not a faux pas he could have hidden from Mrs. Pentstemmon, who noticed_ everything_. Howell only hoped that she would forgive it.

In her generous way, he watched her do just that, ushering Sophie over with a polite acknowledgement of his introduction. Howell attempted to read the nuance in Mrs. Pentstemmon's tone. She sounded genuinely pleased, which came to him as a great relief.

Having joined them at last, Sophie blinked down at Mrs. Pentstemmon's proffered hand as if she were not quite sure what to do with it. Howell wanted to bang his head against the fine lacquered end table at his elbow in frustration. Then, a miracle seemed to occur. An angel must have drifted into the room and carefully placed Sophie's hand on top of Mrs. Pentstemmon's. She offered the grand old dame a shy, uncertain smile, so utterly Sophie that Howell wanted to kiss her. Or applaud her finally having done something right. Or perhaps both.

Then Mrs. Pentstemmon excused herself for not standing due to her health, effectively distracting Howell from his nerves with concern for her. He looked more closely at her and realised she was looking quite pinched, as if sitting up in her throne-like chair was proving somewhat painful to her. He felt a pang of guilt as she explained that her health had forced her into retirement several years before.

Cold grey eyes moved to meet his briefly, and the message there said to him very clearly, _Stop that nonsense._ Howell immediately straightened up and cast about the room for something else to look at. Mrs. Pentstemmon never had tolerated sympathy.

She invited them to sit down and Howell waited for Sophie to choose a chair before taking the one right beside it. He could see her practically shaking with nerves and wanted to reach out and tell her it was all right, but of course that would be problematic to protocol as well as The Plan, and disrespectful of Mrs. Pentstemmon besides. He wouldn't be able to reassure Sophie when she was in to see the King, after all, so Howell let her work it out for herself. He settled into his own chair, appearing much more casual than he felt.

Howell was terribly nervous of the impression Sophie was leaving on his old tutor, but there was nothing he could do but wait to hear the verdict and hope she approved. So far, things did not seem to be going _too_ badly, Sophie's nerves and trying too hard notwithstanding.

Mrs. Pentstemmon broke the ice to begin conversation, As Sophie was clearly not going to open the conversation, and Howell felt it best to stay out of the way of their interaction, Mrs. Pentstemmon broke the ice by stating her age and asking Sophie hers. Howell attempted to hide a smirk as he waited for Sophie to react. Anyone who thought the young wizard had come by all of his devious traits by nature did not know his old tutor very well.

Sophie's expression went blank for a moment, and then she seemed to select a number out of thin air. It amused him that she seemed to have never thought before about the physical age she'd been brought to. It was clear, even to Howell, that the Witch had made her old, but not quite so old as Mrs. Pentstemmon.

Howell had never before considered Sophie's thought process regarding the matter of her curse. Knowing Sophie, she'd never thought of it at all, but simply stumped on, determined to do what she had to do regardless of how she looked or the difficulty of the task ahead of her. Admirable, stubborn old mule. Vain was one thing Sophie was not, which was just as well, as Howell was vain enough for the both of them.

"So old?" Mrs. Pentstemmon asked, and he had to cover his mouth with the back of his hand and feign a yawn to keep from laughing as his tutor subtly hinted at Sophie's lie. "How lucky you are to move so nimbly still." Howell did not think Sophie had yet noticed that the age of her body and health had been returned, if not her looks. Of course, he didn't expect thanks from her. But it might have made things easier on her if she noticed _some_thing every now and then.

He decided to attempt to draw Sophie's attention to this fact, and participate in the wonderful joke Mrs. Pentstemmon was making. "Oh yes, she's so wonderfully nimble that sometimes there's no stopping her." And even that was an understatement.

Mrs. Pentstemmon appeared not to want to share her subtle jest-making process with him, however, for her keen old eyes turned on Howell like scorching sunlight through a magnifying glass. He remembered that harsh tutorial tone of censure well as she scolded him for interrupting. Howell did not miss the triumphant little smirk on Sophie's face to hear him scolded by someone apart from herself, either.

As his old tutor went on to speak of her and Sophie's hand in forming him, Howell began to grow nervous. Just what was she driving at? There was a power behind her words that indicated one of her subtle and almost invisible spells was being cast, but he could not think just what it might be. Sophie, have a hand in forming him? Not likely. If there was one thing Howell had taught the scores of women who had briefly come and gone from his life these last twenty years, it was that he could not be changed.

Her words made his skin prickle, and Howell had to say something in response to such an assertion. "Don't you think I did any of me myself then?" he said, jokingly. "Put in just a few touches of my own?"

From the look on her face, Howell could see Mrs. Pentstemmon was not through with him, and she was not in a mood to tolerate his flippant behaviour and commentary, either. "A few," she replied stiffly, "And those not altogether to my liking."

Howell had to try very hard not to roll his eyes at such a predictable response, given her mood. Sophie was looking on at this exchange in awe, as if she had never imagined anyone but herself remotely capable of standing up to him, much less putting him in his place. He felt castrated and shamed by her presence in these circumstances. But Mrs. Pentstemmon seemed to have the solution to that. "But you will not wish to sit here and hear yourself being discussed."

She knew full well that there was nothing Howell would have liked _more_, even among total strangers, than to hear himself discussed, much less in this situation, which had so much riding on it. Howell made as if to protest, but the old dame railroaded right over him, telling him where he would go when he left, and to take Michael with him. She knew he could not defy a direct order, and Howell knew she had no moral qualms about putting a geas behind it if he objected. Even at her age, Howell was no match for Mrs. Pentstemmon's will, and he knew he had to give in when she insisted, much as he wanted to stay.

Howell rose from his chair, both his posture and expression sullen and rebellious. He had not expected to be driven from the room for their interview, but he supposed he should have. Mrs. Pentstemmon worked best one on one. When he remembered Sophie was watching, Howell pretended not to care that he was being made to leave, his posture going idle and nonchalant as he shrugged it off. There was nothing to be done. His eyes met Sophie's one last time before he turned to go, and as she blinked at him in frightened mouse-surprise, he cast her a look warning her not to dare take pleasure from his defeat. Then he turned to Michael and waved his apprentice out of the room ahead of him.

The door opened without either of them having to touch it, and Hunch waited for them to join him in the hall. It gave Michael a start, but Howell was used to Hunch anticipating Mrs. Pentstemmon's wishes. They were halfway to the stairs when the door opened again and Howell turned to see the little page boy come out into the hall after them. He stood there looking confused and slightly lost before Hunch indicated that he should follow them. Apparently Mrs. Pentstemmon was serious about wanting privacy for her interview with Sophie.

Howell tried not to worry. If anyone could hold her own against the old dame, it was Sophie. But the memory of that frightened mouse look on her face kept returning to his mind's eye, and it was difficult not to fret.

"This is Niccolo." Hunch interrupted his thoughts by introducing the page boy. "He came to us from Caprona six months ago." This didn't seem to be anything like a formal introduction, for Hunch kept moving as he spoke. Howell had to turn and look down at the boy as they reached the stairs in order to acknowledge it.

Niccolo looked to be perhaps three years Michael's junior. Descending the stairs together nearly side by side, they looked like the Prince and the Pauper in spite of the fact his apprentice's new velvet suit was far more sumptuous and better-fit than the house colours the other boy wore. Where Michael was broad and stocky, Niccolo was delicate and fine-featured. His patrician's hands looked very out of place protruding from the too-long sleeves of his livery. He was clearly a princeling out of water, and he would look less and less like a servant the older he became. Howell considered Mrs. Pentstemmon had always been in the habit of surrounding herself with attractive people. It was part of what added to her personal aura of quality and respectability. Even Hunch had the look of a gracefully aging James Bond. And Howell himself...well, that went without saying.

"Caprona?" Howell said. The name did not bring back altogether fond memories. "That city-state doesn't exist in this world." He knew this because he'd been to the world in which it did exist, though it had been as an unwilling visitor, at first.

Toward the beginning of his magical career he'd had the misfortune of inadvertently attracting the attention of one Chrestomanci through an elabourate university prank involving the use of his already respectable powers. In short order, Howell had found himself dragged by the ear into yet another world for a bout of tongue-lashing and threats he would never forget. Apparently, the Powers that Were "frowned upon" the way Howell made use of his gift in his home world, where magic had diminished to hardly more than myth.

The experience had decided him on a permanent move to Ingary once he'd finished his bachelor's degree. Howell could not tolerate being fenced in on any world, yet that pompous old buzzard had proved to him beyond shadow of a doubt that he could, in fact, do just that, should Howell refuse to willingly follow the Rules.

As he had evidenced some inherent gift for trans-dimensional travel, there had been talk of joining the network of Rulemakers as a Magid, but Howell had had absolutely no interest in becoming an inter-dimensional policeman. Rules were made to be artistically bent if not dodged all together, as far as he was concerned. This did not stop him from taking an expensive European Grand Tour of Chrestomanci's world, financed by the Powers in question before he declined the offer, however.

Caprona had been one of his stops in what passed for Italy there. It had seemed a nice enough place if one had the right sort of connections, which Howell sadly had not had. He thought Niccolo probably had not either, if he'd ended up in Ingary. Howell had not thought Mrs. Pentstemmon capable of giving up her teaching career altogether. Clearly this boy was her newest pupil, though she'd attempted to disguise him as a servant in her household. Niccolo was no more a page boy than Michael was the Earl of Sandwich.

As these thoughts flitted through Howell's mind, Hunch turned to him with the hint of a smile that would have been invisible to anyone who did not know him well. "You did not come to us from this world, either, as I recall," he reminded him gently.

"Yes, well. No," Howell admitted. Then he halted their progress to the terrace and turned to the boy in order to make up for his rudeness at having spoken about his home as if he were not present, addressing him graciously in Italian. _"Ma che razza di imperdonabile maleducato sono stato. Scusami per favore, Signore Niccoló. E' sempre un piacere conoscere qualcuno che proviene da una terra così bella."_ He made a graciously deep bow that was utterly inappropriate for a nearly-Royal Wizard to be making to a mere page boy. But Howell did so enjoy making displays. "Howell Pendragon, at your service."

There followed an awkward pause where the boy's soft brown eyes gazed through him, looking vaguely confused. Howell had no doubt he'd used a different dialect of Italian from that spoken in Caprona, considering he was using school-learnt Italian from his own world. But as far as he could recall, they had managed to understand him when he'd been there several years ago. Michael, too, was gawking at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. Howell had never spoken anything but Inglish with the occasional Welsh expletive around his apprentice, and no doubt Michael hadn't thought him capable of more. He smirked inwardly. It pleased Howell to draw these parlour tricks from his sleeve and amaze even those who thought they knew him.

Hunch, who was waiting nearly-invisible off to one side for them to finish their exchange, nodded encouragingly to Niccolo, who tendered an embarrassed little bow before finally speaking. "You have great kindness in speaking to me my own language, Signore Pendragon. But I must work to practice my poor Inglish. I beg your pardon."

It was convenient for Howell to be relieved of speaking any more Italian, as his linguistic prowess did not extend beyond what would do to woo a woman or briefly impress a foreign dignitary. He hadn't actually intended to speak any more, but no one else need know that. Howell nodded in generous acceptance of the boy's proposal and apology for his imperfect grammar.

"I have great honour in meeting Maestra Pentstemmon's favourite pupil," Niccolo finished somewhat awkwardly, and Howell bowed at the compliment. Before the two of them could begin a back and forth display of deferential bows that might go on all afternoon, Hunch reappeared and, without a word, indicated they should all continue to the terrace. Michael and Howell took their seats in ornately wrought iron chairs in the shade while Hunch disappeared to get their refreshment, taking Niccolo with him.

"This house makes me nervous," Michael said, as soon as they were alone.

"I suppose it does take some getting used to," Howell said, reclining easily in the chair, which was not half as uncomfortable as it should have been.

"D'you think..." Michael cast around before continuing, making certain they were not being overheard. "D'you think Sophie will be safe up there alone?"

Howell laughed. "Mrs. Pentstemmon may be imposing, Michael, but she doesn't devour young ladies." He smirked and tipped his face up to the afternoon sun, closing his eyes. "That's _my_ forte." He felt an ungentle poke in his arm.

"You'd better stop talk like that if you want to win over Sophie," Michael told him.

Howell sighed. "I know what I'm doing, Michael."

His apprentice snorted, showing he had spent too much time around the woman in question. "Oh, I forgot. Coming down to breakfast and showing us your pants was _very_ charming. I'm sure Sophie can't wait for you to kiss her now."

Howell cracked an eye open and glared at the source of sarcasm. "I was in a playful mood."

"When aren't you?" Michael asked, wryly.

Howell ignored the question, and the two of them sat in semi-comfortable silence for a few moments. Then his apprentice changed the subject. "So how did you know? About Sophie?"

Howell opened his eyes, blinking leisurely like a content cat. "Know that she wasn't what she seems, you mean?" Michael nodded. "That's simple, Michael. You'll find as you progress in your lessons, the more difficult spells you master, the more spells you'll be able to spot right off. I would never do the sorts of spells the Witch of the Waste has been casting at our expense lately, but I understand how they work, and it's quite simple to see through them really."

Michael was looking at him rather dubiously, as if there were something he wasn't quite confident enough to say. "But _I_ can't see through spells."

"Of course you can, Michael. This terrace, for instance. Tell me what you see."

His apprentice looked around, rather hopeless that he could discover anything. "I see…a terrace. That's all."

Howell had dealt with Michael's obtuse side enough not to become frustrated. "Let's try this again," he began. "When I say 'see through' a spell, I don't necessarily mean literally."

"So you DON'T know what Sophie really looks like."

Howell smiled fondly, his expression going a bit dreamy and vaguely stupid. "Oh, I do."

Michael was trying hard to work it out. "So…in that case, it **is** literal."

Howell reclined, settling into his chair for the long story. "Actually," Howell drawled with the leisure of superiority that came from knowing something his companion did not, "Sophie and I have met before, though she's so far pretended we haven't."

His apprentice blinked at him in confusion. "You mean. When she was young?"

Howell chuckled. "Yes, when she looked her age."

"But when? How?"

Just then, Hunch arrived with two iced teas and some dry, wafer-thin biscuits. If he and Howell had not been close, he could have easily and silently placed the tray between them and left without being noticed. But their relationship was different, and Hunch placed the tray between them and then waited for an opportunity to speak, having a servant's politeness and timing in not interrupting a conversation in progress. Howell knew the signs. "Yes, Hunch?"

"From what I can tell, Master Howell, the interview seems to be going well. I should say there's no need to worry."

"Of course there isn't," Howell said just a bit too quickly. "I wasn't worried." A brief spurt of nervous laughter betrayed his lie. He hadn't realised just how tense he was.

"And if I may add…" Hunch cast a sidelong glance at Michael, as if he wasn't sure it was all right to speak freely in front of Howell's page boy/apprentice.

"What's this formality between us, old man? If it's Michael you're concerned about; don't be. He's family." His apprentice gave him a strange look to hear that and then, after a moment of looking strange, a tearful smile slowly grew on his face. Luckily Howell was left out of the emotional display because his attention was focused on Hunch at the time.

"I like her," the old footman said plainly. "I think you've made a good choice." And there was the merest pause before he added, "For once."

Howell chuckled. "Touché. I suppose you did get caught in the aftermath of a few too many of my affairs back in those days." Hunch merely raised a disapproving eyebrow. Michael looked on in fascination at the exchange.

Hunch recovered from his little nonverbal lesson in morality and went on. "I don't feel it premature to say that I believe Madam feels the same." Howell's face broke out in a genuine smile of relief.

"Wait," Michael cut in. His eyes narrowed a bit as he looked at his master, suspiciously. "Why did we really come here, Howl?" Hunch bowed gracefully out of the conversation and left them to it.

"Well, just why I said, Michael," Howell answered him smoothly. "I wanted to give Sophie some practice before we go to see the King."

"And?" Michael prompted, knowing there was more.

Howell smiled. "And…I'd asked for Mrs. Pentstemmon's expert opinion on Sophie's curse. Naturally she had to meet her in person to take a proper look at it."

"You think she'll be able to break it?" Michael asked, hopeful.

"I doubt that," Howell frowned. "But she might be able to tell me something that will help."

"Oh."

They sat in contemplative silence for several minutes before Michael returned to the previous subject. "So…you met Sophie before?"

"Ah yes," Howell said, happy to remember.

"When?"

Howell settled in for some storytelling. "On your birthday, actually."

"Really?" This seemed to please Michael, for reasons unknown. Howell nodded.

"As you may recall, we'd both wandered into Market Chipping to take a look at Calcifer's fireworks from an appreciative distance."

"And you were looking for some women," Michael added.

Howell nodded, amiably. "I had gone to Market Square to admire the ladies in their holiday dress, while you…where _did_ you go, Michael?"

Now it was his apprentice's turn to smile fondly and go vaguely stupid. "I went to Cesari's to buy myself a birthday cake. That's when I first met her."

Howell smiled kindly. "Your Lettie?" Michael sighed, dreamily. "Seems it was a good night for both of us."

Michael blinked and seemed to come back to himself. "So…you saw Sophie in her holiday dress?"

Howell laughed. "Knowing Sophie, Michael, can you imagine her dressed up in any sort of elabourate, colourful costume?" He watched the gears turn in his apprentice's head as Michael attempted to picture the 80-year-old Sophie they knew in a festive holiday kirtle complete with corset. He went a funny colour and shook his head no. "If I'd been looking merely at _clothes_, she would have stood out because of how _plainly_ she was dressed."

"But you weren't," Michael put in.

"Of course not. I was approaching a storefront to gain a better vantage from which to watch the crowd, when I noticed a lone timid figure holding to the wall as she attempted to make her way around the crowd. She looked terrified."

Michael looked confused. "Sophie, terrified?"

"She's quite different as a young lady," Howell told him. "Or at least, she was then."

"_You_ terrified her," Michael said, accusingly. "I've seen how you go at a fresh catch."

"On the contrary, Michael, I was a complete gentleman."

His apprentice made a face. "You always SAY that…"

"Our exchange was very brief, in fact," Howell continued, ignoring Michael's disbelief. "I merely asked her to join me for a drink…" Michael rolled his eyes. "…she declined, and then I tried to escort her to wherever it was she was going. She looked scared to death of the crowds."

"But she was more scared of you," Michael said, observantly.

"Well. She politely declined my help – you know how stubborn she is – and ran off into the night. Of course I couldn't let her go alone."

"Of course," Michael said, sarcastically, biting into a biscuit.

"So I followed her at a discreet distance in order to make sure she got where she needed to go, safely." Howell tapped his lips, thoughtful. "Come to think of it, I did seem to lose her right around Cesari's."

"She must have been going to see Lettie," Michael said. And then a realization seemed to dawn on him. "Wait! I think I was there when she came!"

Howell sat forward in his chair, looking at Michael with interest. "Were you really?"

Michael nodded and nodded, very excited. "Yes! I mean, I was at the back of the throng, but I saw a girl push her way to the counter, and then Lettie said something about wanting to talk to her sister." He looked thoughtful. "I never thought before that might've been Sophie." He looked up at Howell. "She had sort of blondish-red hair..." He seemed to take Howell in for a moment. "Rather like yours, only...a natural colour."

Howell smiled. "Didn't you wonder why Sophie turned my hair such a strange colour?"

His apprentice returned a blank look. "She did? I thought you were just blaming her because you were upset at getting the wrong tint."

Howell sighed, long-sufferingly. "Michael. Just because I'm overwrought doesn't mean I'm incapable of speaking truth."

"You _do_ tend to exaggerate," Michael said, prudently.

"Well, I wasn't about that," Howell answered, testily.

"But why would she change your hair to look like hers?"

"Ah, but that's just it. It was an accident."

Michael looked confused and wary. "I thought you said she did it on purpose."

Howell was beginning to feel the way he had during their infamous Lettie conversation the night before. He explained, slowly. "She didn't do it on purpose, Michael. But she did tamper with my hair tint."

"How?" Michael asked. Then it dawned on him. "Ohhhh, when she was cleaning."

"Actually, when she was **snoop**ing."

Now Michael looked a bit more sympathetic. "She is awfully nosy. Especially where you're concerned."

"Really?" Howell was suddenly all ears, leaning on the arm of his chair toward Michael, smiling winningly. "I'd love to hear about it."

Unfortunately, it was not to be. Hunch came out just then, interrupting their conversation. "Madam has dismissed your -- mother, Master Howell." Howell tried not to chuckle at the meaningful pause the old footman had thrown in. Hunch had a wonderful sense of humour if you knew what to look for. "It's time for her rest."

"So soon?" Howell asked, rising.

Hunch looked pained. "It's already been quite longer than she's been able to manage lately."

As they followed him out to the hall, Howell placed a hand on Hunch's elbow, concerned. "That bad?"

Hunch nodded slightly. "The doctor says she just needs to take things slower, now, but you know how she is. She says it's the end of her anyway." He had to stop and, drawing a large silk handkerchief out of his sleeve, he dabbled at his eyes. "There's no sense in her slowing down just because she's reached her time limit."

Howell felt nearly as bad as Hunch at this news. "She _would_ say that," he said, but he left his hand on Hunch's elbow in silent commiseration.

"I wonder how Sophie's doing, if Mrs. P needs a rest," Michael wondered aloud.

Howell turned to look at him. "Well I hope, considering the interview sounds to have gone well."

"I don't know..." Michael hedged, reluctant to say anything about the effect Mrs. Pentstemmon might have on a lone victim, given the timing and their recent talk.

Not long after they reached the door, Niccolo appeared at the top of the stair, and Sophie's crackly old voice could be heard grumping at him to slow down. Howell turned and gave Michael a look of "told you so," assuming that if Sophie was in a good enough mood to gripe, she must be fine.

The page boy did slow, and then both of them saw Sophie come into view at the top of the stairs. She looked like death warmed over. In fact, if Niccolo hadn't just then offered her his arm to help her down the stairs, Howell would have leapt up them to do so himself. He had half a mind to do so anyway.

As Sophie approached, Michael elbowed Howell sharply in the ribs, telling HIM so. But Howell was too concerned for Sophie to argue with Michael who, once again, seemed to know his beloved better than he himself did.

As she and Niccolo reached the bottom of the stair, Howell stepped forward, feeling horribly guilty for having put Sophie through such a harrowing experience that she looked this way afterward. Doubly guilty, as apparently Mrs. Pentstemmon had not been up to the interview to start with. Her premonition of her own impending death was something Howell refused to think about.

He managed to find his tongue as rheumy turquoise eyes met his, making a carefully understated remark about her present looks and suggesting they skip seeing the King. It was as good an excuse as any to return to his original plan of visiting only Mrs. Pentstemmon today. "I'll go and blacken my own name when I make your excuses," he offered. "I can say my wicked ways have made you ill."

Sophie began to wobble a bit, and Howell reached out to steady her, but she thumped her walking stick on the floor quite forcefully, catching herself and looking less vague than she had a moment before. Still, she clearly needed rest. "That could be true, from the look of you," Howell finished.

Sophie seemed to consider this for a moment, but Howell could tell from her expression that she was in no mood to suddenly start taking his advice. She shook her head regretfully, resolutely and told him, "After Mrs. Pentstemmon, the King of Ingary will seem just like an ordinary person."

Howell was too worried about Sophie to consider dashing upstairs for Mrs. Pentstemmon's abridged verdict, a fact he would come to deeply regret later. Hunch had disappeared to take care of his mistress, and so Niccolo let them out.

s

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**Author's Note: **There are many more original DWJ quotes in here than I usually include. So many, it would take too long to point out which are hers and which are mine. Hopefully a lawsuit is not imminent.

Credit for the quote in Italian goes to my friend Ester, who was a wonderful help in giving me the right words for Howl's florid apology to Niccolo for his rudeness and random pointless compliment of his country.


	22. Pepper and Pitfalls

**Characters this chapter:** Howell, Sophie, Michael, Calcifer

**Rating:** T (for a charmed suit)

Chapter 22: _Pepper and Pitfalls_

Out in the street once more, the sun beat down on the cobblestones, making Howell wish sunglasses had been invented in this world. They took the few short blocks to the Palace slowly, Michael walking on one side of Sophie while Howell tried not to hover on the other. She did a good job of ignoring both of them, stumping down the street with a bulldogged look of determination on her face. Afraid she might give him a sharp rap or five with her stick should he attempt to help her in any way, Howell worked a number of minor spells during the course of their walk, giving Sophie back some of her energy and keeping some of the brutal heat off her. He also cast an equivalent air conditioning spell on Michael so that his suit would not be stained with sweat by the time they arrived.

When they reached the bottom of the Grande Stair, Howell was just about to suggest an alternate route when Sophie moved on ahead, hobbling up the stairs like some stubborn old engine that cannot be stopped once set in motion. He looked at Michael, shrugged, and they followed. Both Howell and his apprentice were used to traversing these stairs, and yet it was an effort to keep up with Sophie's relentless pace. He took this as a sign that his spells had worked.

Howell breathed a sigh of relief when they finally reached the shade of the colonnade and began to be handed into the heart of the Palace by the series of clerks. As the cry of "Mrs. Pendragon to see the King!" was passed on and on and on, Howell found himself feeling quite smug at the fact they would be saying the same once he and Sophie were married. …Unless, that was, she decided to make an issue of keeping her own name, turning them into a family of Mad Hatters. Howell could only hope she would see reason. The name Pendragon seemed to suit Sophie even better than it did him today, stately as she looked tramping down the royal halls. He was quite proud of her, especially knowing how ill she had looked just a short while ago. Now Sophie was capably holding her own, though he thought she must still be quite nervous. He could only admire a woman whose nerves turned to steel under pressure.

Howell was disappointed when he was held back before they reached the stairs to the royal apartments, though he'd known it would happen. As Sophie and Michael proceeded on without him, his apprentice looked back at Howell with a panic-stricken expression. He merely returned a look that told Michael he was responsible for bringing Sophie back safely.

After they'd disappeared from sight, Howell turned to the clerk at his elbow, turning on one of his charming smiles. "Having made it so far up in the ranks, I can see you must be terribly good at your job." The young man nodded warily. "I'm sure you could arrange it so that I would be able to wait for my dear old mother a bit closer to where she's going to emerge," he wheedled. "She's been ill, you see, and I worry about her going up and down all these stairs with just my pageboy to look after her." The clerk looked hesitant. "I'm confident you understand, having a mother of your own," Howell pressed on, toying with the idea of magically compelling the young man to grant his request. "Surely it would do no harm for me to be taken upstairs."

"My instructions are to--" the clerk began.

"Instructions," Howell said, indulgently. "You wouldn't have got to where you are today if you'd only ever followed instructions. Am I right?" The clerk eyed him dubiously. "I assure you, my good man, I am a trustworthy personage. Perhaps you have not heard that the King has unofficially appointed me one of his royal wizards?" The clerk shook his head. "Well, it's quite true. Now if I'm entrusted with a position like that, surely I would be allowed upstairs now, wouldn't I? I used to spend a great deal of time at Court, to tell the truth."

This seemed to put the odds in his favour at last. The clerk heaved a sigh of relief and offered a tentative smile. "Oh, the Court!" he exclaimed. "Of course I could arrange for you to wait there without any trouble." This was, in fact, the last thing Howell wanted, but before he could object he was being passed from hand to hand, up the back stairs and through a set of double doors that seemed vaguely familiar. The clerk at the entrance announced him, and Howell suddenly found himself in the salon adjoining the King's war room, which was presumably where he was meeting with Sophie.

He tried to look nonchalant as all eyes turned to him. "Wizard Pendragon!" a voice clear as a bell called to him from the far end of the room. Howell glanced in that direction to find the Queen was spending the day with the Court. She waved at him with an ivory fan from her seat on the dais. Making his way through the crowd of loosely-arranged cliques, Howell noted with disappointment that Jasper did not seem to be present today, before greeting the Queen.

"Your Majesty." He went down on one knee and kept his head bowed. A delicate pink hand wearing a gold ring the size of a human eyeball was offered him and Howell took it, brushing her knuckles with his lips. "Truly an undisguised pleasure. It's been far too long."

"There's no need to be so formal," the Queen told him kindly. "I'm not seated in audience, after all." Some ladies standing nearby tittered at this, and Howell got back to his feet and bowed again.

"Very generous of you, Madam."

The Queen opened her fan and gazed almost coyly at him over it. "Rolland tells me you've been at the Palace quite a lot lately, Pendragon. I feel slighted you did not come to see me on any of those occasions." She was acting awfully strange, to Howell's mind, and speaking to him in a tone he had never before heard from her. Queen Amelia had always been kind and easy-going in formal settings, but today she was acting…overly familiar. They had exchanged pleasantries and polite conversation in the past, but they were hardly what might be called friends.

"A dreadful oversight on my part," Howell told her, and bowed in apology. "I was given to think you were not present at the Palace, as the Princess was keeping company with her father the King."

She made a face, the delicate cherry of her lips contorting in a frown. "Yes, that was strange. Rolland is terribly fond of our little Princess, but he's kept her by his side more than usual since we received that threat from the Witch of the Waste months ago. Still, I thought it odd he asked to borrow her the other day."

"Borrow?"

"Yes, he said he needed her to test some strategic theory. Of course, I told him he was not using her as a counter in one of his war games, but he just laughed."

Howell had gone very quiet at this news. Could it be the King had purposefully _tricked _him into being honest after all? He did not want to believe it, and yet he could not think of any explanation that better fit the news he'd just been given. "Thursday last, was it?" he inquired politely.

"Yes," the Queen replied. "How did you know?"

"Just an educated guess, Madam. I believe that was when I last saw Princess Valeria in your husband's charge." Howell was not pleased at this news. Not pleased at all.

"Tell me," she went on, thoughtful. "What is the King like with his daughter? I know how he behaves with her when I myself or the nurses are watching, but when he's alone…is he as affectionate? I do wonder." She leaned close and touched Howell's arm in a way he was not certain he was altogether comfortable with. "I feel I can trust you, Pendragon. You do not seem to me the sort of man who lies about important things. And I know you surmise more than you let on."

Howell took the compliment as well as he could with the Queen leaning closer and closer to him by the moment. And then a thought struck him. An awful thought. Diabolical, one might say. Suddenly, he knew exactly how he could get back at the King for the trick he'd played on Howell yesterday. "As a matter of fact, Your Majesty," he began carefully, "I was somewhat surprised at your husband's behaviour with the Princess the other day."

"Really?" She was eating out of the palm of his hand, blinking long blond eyelashes that had been expertly darkened with mascara and eyeliner. Howell pretended to hesitate, uncertain whether he should reveal this bit of information. "Please," the Queen encouraged him. "You may speak freely." She cast a meaningful look at the women hovering close by, and they subtly dispersed.

He waited just a moment longer. "Well…"

"Yes?"

"I did wonder what the Princess was doing unattended in a room all alone."

"What!"

"I'm not very good with children," Howell lied through his teeth. "But it doesn't seem a very safe practice, what with the open fireplace..." Seeing that the Queen was seething, he continued. "I did my best of course, once I'd arrived, to keep her out of danger."

She pressed his hand in nonverbal thanks. "You're a good man, Wizard Howl."

He inclined his head, generously. "You are too kind to say so. I merely did what anyone with a conscience would have done under the circumstances. Of course, the King did arrive and take charge of her…after a mere 30 or 40 minutes…"

The Queen looked nearly ready to interrupt Sophie's interview in order to rain down her wrath on the King. "That irresponsible…!"

"It's difficult," Howell stalled her, "I'm sure, to be a man burdened with so much responsibility and then add that of parenthood. But one can hardly blame him for wanting to keep his daughter close, given the threat you mentioned."

"But to send the nurses away!" she declared, rising from her seat. "Wizard Pendragon, if you'll excuse me…"

"If you're worried about the princess now, I assure you, she's quite safe for the moment."

The Queen turned back. "Oh?"

"Yes." Howell offered a reassuring smile. "You see, my old mother is currently meeting with the King, and she's very good with children." He had no idea whether he was lying or not, but he had to keep the Queen from interrupting the meeting somehow.

"Oh." She looked thoughtful, as if trying to remember what she might have heard about Wizard Howl's old mother. Considering he had lied gleefully and incessantly about his background in his old days at Court, Howell thought it best to prevent her thought process on the matter.

"So there's no need to worry, Your Majesty. At least…for now."

She nodded. "I am eternally grateful for this news you've passed on to me, Pendragon. And thank you for looking out for the safety of the Princess."

Howell graciously inclined his head. "Any way I may be of service." He smirked to himself, watching as she swept over to the guards at the doors leading to the war room and informed them she was to be notified as soon as the King became free. Howell knew better than anyone there was nothing like a woman's wrath to ruin one's day.

He was just beginning to feel smug when a shadow loomed over his complacency and he turned warily toward the source. It was Lady Bumblefry, the official court gossip, no doubt descending upon him to catch him up on recent rumours. "Wizard Pendragon, so _delightful_ to have you with us again," she said in that dreadfully contrived tone most of the middle-aged women at Court practiced.

Howell stood, so as to be less easily overwhelmed by her enthusiasm. "It is my honour, Lady Bumblefry, as always."

"My dear!" she exclaimed. "Have you heard the news?"

Howell did not particularly want to wile away his time waiting for Sophie listening to gossip, but as Jasper did not seem to be at Court today, he supposed there were worse ways to spend his time. Now that the Queen had left, he did not think it his imagination that various of the younger Court ladies were slowly edging closer, like lions on the hunt. He gladly turned to his companion instead, "Lady Bumblefry, if I say I have will that prevent you from telling me?"

She tittered as well as a woman of her years was able. "Always ready with a clever quip, our Wizard Pendragon. But surely you must have heard this news. It has import to yourself."

He raised an eyebrow. "Does it now? And what news would this be?"

"Have you not noticed?" Her gesture took in the room. "A particular presence which today our Court finds lacking?"

Howell humoured her and looked around the Court, noting several noble faces which were not among those gathered. He tried to think which of them she could mean. Then he noticed the salon was rather subdued. There was no feast of sycophants transpiring, no particularly loud strutting idiot to divert the attention of the room from the rest. "The Viscomte," he said.

"Exactly." She gestured approvingly with her fan. "But you have not heard why?"

"No," Howell replied. "Did something dreadful happen to him, I hope?"

She tittered again like a dying crow and waved her fan in the air, enjoying his candour immensely. "Such a cad! You are truly deplorable, Wizard Pendragon!" Then she turned to him, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "But yes, my dear. That is precisely what has befallen our good friend from Low Norland."

"Has it now?" Howell asked with interest. "Do tell."

She leaned closer, delighted to have his interest at last. "Well it seems he was hospitalised after an injury resulting from his duel with the Count of Catterack this morning."

"The Count of Catterack?" Howell asked, incredulous. "Why, he couldn't get the better of a lame dog in a duel." He did not add that the Viscomte had often boasted of his fencing prowess.

The look on Lady Bumblefry's face was near ecstatic as she revealed what she obviously felt was the _piece de resistance_. "Ah, but he _cheated_."

Howell found this equally difficult to believe. But his informant seemed to be waiting for him to comment before she continued, so he obliged her. "Cheated, you say?"

"With magic!" she finished with relish. 

Howell looked puzzled. The Count had come to the Kingsbury door for magical assistance a time or two in the past, and he seemed as incapable of magic as he was of everything else. In fact, Howell had made Michael write out detailed instructions for each of the spells they'd sold him, doubting the Count's ability to get it right even _with_ them. "What happened _exactly_?" he asked her.

"It seems to have been some type of _curse_," she said, and the way she stressed 'curse' made it sound like the Viscomte had been hospitalised with leprosy. "Those who were present at the time say the Count tossed a sort of powder into the air at the start of the duel, and the Viscomte fell to the ground, screaming that his eyes and nose were burning - in that dreadful mother tongue of his, of course."

Howell tried to think what sort of spell it could have been. Disappointingly, it didn't sound like any of the curses which had sprung immediately to mind when he'd first heard of the Viscomte's misfortune.

Lady Bumblefry was looking at him with an odd twinkle in her eye. "But of course this will not be news to _you_. We all know where the nobility go in Kingsbury for their spells."

"I beg your pardon?" Howell asked, uncertain whether he was more offended at the accusation of having sold a curse or confused to be informed he had.

"Oh, there's no need to be coy." She tapped him playfully with her fan. "Though I understand you might not want to acknowledge it, now the solicitors have been involved. Still, it seems unavoidable, given the Count has confessed it himself."

Howell was no longer enjoying this exchange, and his collar had suddenly become strangely constricting. "Solicitors?"

"Oh yes," she nodded with certainty. "You can expect no less from a man of the Viscomte's temperament. He's suing the Count outright; papers served not an hour ago. It's only logical he will also pursue the Wizard who sold the Count that spell. But of course there's only been talk of that so far. Unless...?" She looked to him expectantly, but Howell was no longer paying attention. He could only assume that the Viscomte had implicated him out of pure malice, for it was certain he'd sold no such thing to the Count. Michael could hardly put together the simple spells he'd been taught, much less construct a curse from scratch, neither would he have done, being frighteningly moral and upright.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he told the gossip monger. "But that can't possibly be. Neither my apprentice nor I deal in curses. In fact, there's no one in my household who would even be cap--" He stopped suddenly as a dreadful thought occurred to him. _Sophie._ She was so well-meaningly incompetent, he did not put it past her to have attempted to help a customer in his and Michael's absence. Knowing her natural talent for chaos and destruction, he would not be surprised in the least if she'd accidentally thrown together a curse out of random ingredients. And it would be just his luck, considering how things had been going, recently.

Lady Bumblefry heard his promising hesitation and leaned into it. "You were saying, Wizard Pendragon?"

Howell reinforced his courtly mask and turned on his smile. "Oh, nothing whatever, Lady Bumblefry. Of course, you must understand I can't make any public statements on the subject, now the solicitors have become involved. My own has advised me as much."

"Ahhh, I _see_," she said, leaning back in her chair and fanning herself as the wheels of presumption turned in her mind.

"Quite." Howell rose to take his leave of her, having spied the Count of Catterack hovering rather forlorn as usual in a corner of the room alone and intending to have a few words with him. "It's been lovely speaking with you again," he lied. "But if you'll excuse me, there's something I have to--!" Howell's sentence derailed with a jump as a soft gloved hand came into contact with his crimson-suited backside. Howell stepped forward to extricate himself before turning to address his assailant.

"Countess," he forced another smile. "How lovely to see you again." She approached, opening eager arms to embrace him, and Howell retreated. "I'm afraid I must run just now. We shall have to catch up another time." Before she could respond, he beat a hasty retreat into the cigar parlour he and Jasper had found solace in the other night. Unfortunately, Howell's departure had not gone unnoticed this time, and a veritable flock of eager ladies followed in hot pursuit. He had no idea what could have gotten into them, but Howell was not about to repeat his experience of the other afternoon or be shamelessly groped in public without an invitation. He spent the next half hour playing a mad game of hide and seek around the Palace with his pursuers. When Howell finally realised he would not be able to lose them through art alone, he cast a transport spell to take him to wherever Michael was waiting for Sophie so that they could leave as quickly as possible.

Much to his surprise, Howell found himself out of doors, at the top of the Grande Stair. "I've lost Sophie!" Michael cried.

Howell felt a pounding headache coming on. "How could you possibly _lose_ Sophie, Michael?"

His apprentice wrung his hands in worry. "I was waiting outside the door, right where I was supposed to. I waited and _waited_. Then I heard shouting from inside. But it wasn't Sophie. The guards turned me away, saying the King and Queen where having a private meeting, and I asked what happened to the old lady who'd just been in to see the King. They told me she'd left. I didn't know there was another door!" Michael cried in despair. "I came to wait out here, thinking she would have to come out eventually, but she hasn't. Do you suppose she could've gone home already?"

Howell considered this. "With Sophie, anything is possible." He patted his apprentice on the shoulder, comfortingly. "Don't despair, Michael. You did your best. With a woman like _her_, these sorts of things are inevitable." In order to prove his point, he told Michael about the impending lawsuit over the spell he suspected Sophie had sold as they walked home.

"Oh, that!" Michael said, and burst out laughing. "She told me all about that."

Howell was not pleased. "And you didn't see fit to share that bit of information with the master of the house?"

"No, no." Michael waved his hands to show it was all right, seeing Howell's temper had been kindled. "She didn't sell him a spell at all." He started to laugh again. "It was an envelope of pepper!"

"Pepper?" Howell considered this. "Well, I suppose that would explain the burning…" He looked at Michael and Michael looked at him and they paused each waiting for some reaction from the other. Then both of them burst out laughing. "Pepper!" Howell declared. "That pompous windbag can't be injured in the least! Though I hope it stung! Couldn't have happened to a nicer person!"

Michael wiped his eyes. "Sophie was embarrassed when I explained to her what she'd done."

"And well she should have been," Howell said. "She has no business selling spells from my front door in any case."

His apprentice looked sheepish. "I suppose that was my fault for leaving her alone again."

Knowing that his arch-enemy at Court had suffered an embarrassment due to Sophie's mistake had put Howell into a much better mood; a mood to be more forgiving. "Well, hopefully it won't come to anything," Howell said. "But I'd better talk to a solicitor all the same." He shook his head. "With Sophie, if it's not one thing, it's another."

Michael elbowed him, amicably. "I think you secretly enjoy it."

"I will admit no such thing, Michael," Howell told him mock-sternly as they walked up to the Kingsbury door.

It swung open before he could even reach for the doorknob, and Calcifer bellowed from within, "Howell, you'd better get in here! We have a problem!"

Howell dashed inside, his jovial mood of the previous moment forgotten. "What's happened?" he asked, leaping up the stairs. "Has she gotten to Neil?"

One of Calcifer's blue hands emerged to point a finger at a speck of dust on the floor in front of him. "We have a visitor." Howell's brow furrowed as he stepped over to the hearth. "Careful where you step," the fire demon warned. "He's quite small."

Howell did as he was told, his eyes trained on what he'd first mistaken for a stain on the ash outside the grate. As he approached, he heard a high-pitched squeaking that hurt his ears, and realised it was not a stain, but a tiny brown mouse, trembling in the ashes at Calcifer's feet. "I don't think I've seen a mouse since Sophie's come to live with us," Howell mused aloud.

Michael hovered round the door, pretending he was not afraid of rodents but just casually hanging up his cloak. "That's because she drove them all off," Calcifer said. "Can you blame them? Most people take one look at Sophie with her besom and run the other way. Everyone except you," he added smartly.

"All right, all right," Howell said, squatting down to get a better look at the tiny creature. "That's enough of that subject for one day, Calcifer."

"If you think I'm ever going to let you live down breakfast…" the fire demon began, but Howell was no longer paying attention. The closer he got to the squeaking, the more it seemed to take on a specific shape, intelligible words emerging. The voice was so high, however, it was difficult to make them out. He scooped up the mouse and brought it closer to his nose for inspection. The trembling thing gazed back at him, terrified, with pathetic soft brown eyes. "Good gods!" Howell exclaimed. "It's Niccolo!"

"What?" Michael said, freezing as he was edging toward the stairs to make his escape. "Someone turned him into a mouse?"

Howell grimaced as he knelt down in the ash, cradling the mouse-boy carefully. "Not someone, Michael. The Witch of the Waste."


	23. Blackest Melodrama

**Characters this chapter: **Michael, Calcifer, Howl, Sophie, Hunch

**Rating: **T

**Chapter 23:** _Blackest Melodrama_

Michael gasped as Calcifer nodded his confirmation. "You might have said so to begin with, Calcifer," Howell said.

"I knew you'd see it yourself as soon as you had a look," the fire demon snapped.

"Go get an old set of your clothes, Michael," Howell instructed him. "He's not likely to have any when I turn him back." As his apprentice pounded up the stairs to do as he'd asked, Howell patted the tiny rodent reassuringly with the tip of his index finger. "Don't worry, lad. We'll have this all sorted out in a moment." In truth Howell was far more dubious than he sounded. If Violet had turned Mrs. Pentstemmon's pageboy into a mouse, it followed logically that she'd done something similar to Hunch and Mrs. Pentstemmon herself. It shocked Howell to the bone to think she'd managed to get into Mrs. Pentstemmon's house. He tried to cherish a faint hope that perhaps the Witch had merely encountered Niccolo on the street, but it guttered like a candle flame before Howell's intuition.

Waiting for Michael to return before he cast the spell, Howell could not suppress the notion that tiny words were beginning to emerge amid the squeaking emanating from his hand. It took all of his considerable powers of denial to fail to hear those words. The humanity in the squeaks was bad enough. Howell had never heard a mouse weep before, and it was a sound he could happily go the rest of his life without ever hearing again.

When Michael finally came back with the clothes, Howell laid the transformed boy carefully atop the bundle of fabric before setting about finding the spell's weak spot. He knew there would be one, Violet had always been over-hasty and careless in constructing her spells. Finding it quickly, Howell pulled it like a cork and the spell unraveled. A few sparkles and some mist later, and a very miserable boy huddled before them, trembling just as the mouse had. 

Like a race horse at the starting bell, Niccolo launched into his native language at full speed. Howell had trouble following, but there were four words he could discern easily enough; the same four words he'd been trying not to hear in the mouse's squeaking: '_Maestra_ Pentstemmon', '_morte_', and '_strega_.' Howell sat back hard in the ashes. He'd known it somehow from the moment he'd recognized the mouse as Niccolo. That special space in the corner of his mind left from the bond they'd established as tutor and pupil was gone.

Howell felt more empty inside than ever. She had seen her own death coming, but he'd had no idea it would be this soon. Overcome by a moment of grief and loss, he cradled his face in his hands, thinking, _If only..._

A comforting hand squeezed his arm. Michael had not yet mastered the fine art of masculine shows of affection, but he was trying. Howell looked up at him gratefully. "It's all right, Michael." But it most definitely was not. "Bound to happen, eventually." For a moment, Howell was not exactly certain to what he was referring. Mrs. Pentstemmon's death? That had certainly been an inevitability. But Howell had a sneaking suspicion what he'd really meant by that was that it was bound to happen someone would be killed because of his cowardice. If he hadn't run away from Violet, this never would have happened.

"Don't blame yourself," Calcifer said cannily, sounding acerbic by nature rather than intent. "And by no means act on your guilt and go running out of this house. _You're_ the one she's looking for. The damage is done now. At least honour the old lady's memory by not throwing in the toilet what she died for."

Suddenly, a cold fear gripped Howell hard enough to steal his breath away. "Sophie!" He leapt to his feet and was sprinting toward the door before he'd even had time to process a need to do so.

"Howell!" Calcifer yelled.

"Howl, no!" Michael cried.

"Don't forget you're a despicable coward," Calcifer reminded him helpfully.

Howell stopped at the door and collapsed against it, one hand on the knob. "Damn you, Calcifer."

"Too late," the fire demon said.

"Why did you have to remind me?"

"I _don't_ have to," Calcifer replied, sounding annoyed. "Your heart's pounding like a herd of wildebeest. You're terrified and you know it."

"But...Sophie!" Howell cried in despair. He whirled around dramatically and collapsed back against the door, slowly sliding down it until he was sitting on the stone floor. "I can't let her get Sophie!" he wailed in pathetic protest.

"Don't be stupid," Calcifer snapped. "Sophie's not a target. The Witch knows nothing about her connection to you at this point. But if you go charging out there right now looking to rescue someone who isn't even in danger, you might as well write the Witch a letter carefully detailing everyone who's precious to you." He paused for emphasis. "Idiot."

"Why must you be so sane?" Howell whined, over-dramatically. "**I** don't feel very sane just now." He threw a sweeping sleeve across his eyes.

"As if you ever did," the fire demon muttered.

"Calcifer, have a heart," Michael chided, gently.

"I do!" Calcifer protested.

Their not-quite-arguing was interrupted by a fourth voice, one quite small and timid compared to those that normally echoed through the castle. "Please excuse," Niccolo interjected, his Inglish having gone to hell in a handbasket given recent traumatic events. "But I must go back. Mr. Hunch, I dinna see what she do to him. And someone--" his voice suddenly choked up and his large, sensitive eyes filled with tears. "Someone gotta call the mortuary."

"Oh, lord!" Howell was on his feet again. "Hunch, too?"

"I do not know, Signore Pendragon. I must go check. Perhaps he a mouse, too."

Howell suddenly thought of something awful. His eyes grew wide with dread as he uttered a mystical word or expletive unknown to either Michael or Calcifer. "Cadbury!"

"Cadbury?" they asked in unison, looking as though they suspected Howell might in fact _have_ gone mad. If they had ever seen the twenty pound black and white miniature panther of a tomcat in question, they would have understood the danger.

Niccolo was nodding. "He chase me outta the house, so I have hope for Mr. Hunch. Maybe he not go back inside."

"That cat's not one to roam," Howell said. "He's as possessive of his creature comforts as--well, as I am." Throwing the door open on Kingsbury, he cried, "Come on, Niccolo! There's no time to lose!"

"Howell!" Calcifer yelled. "You'll get us both killed!"

"What should I do?" Michael shouted as Niccolo ran to the door. 

"Stay here in case Sophie returns!" Howell called back. "And by heaven, don't tell her anything that might get her up in arms and running after me!" In other words, the truth of where he'd gone. Howell did not hear Michael's response, for he and Niccolo had already rounded the corner toward Mrs. Pentstemmon's. They made quite a sight, the tall, thin overdressed Wizard with his hair all askew, stretching his long legs to take each block in a few strides as the small fine-boned boy in clothes two sizes too big for him sprinted to keep up. Not a few heads turned to watch them as they flew past.

Niccolo called out behind him. "You cannot throw the transport spell, Signore Pendragon?"

"No," he shouted back. "If I cast a spell and she's in the city looking for me, it's like shooting off a flare."

"Eh?"

"She'll be watching for the signs." Fortunately for Howell, the Witch of the Waste was at that moment watching with maleficent satisfaction as Sophie hobbled up all 313 stairs to the Palace. She did not see the two of them go flying past just a few blocks away.

They reached Sedge Court in only a few minutes. Howell stopped at the front stairs, bending over the railing to catch his breath. "It's been a few years," he told Niccolo by way of explanation. "It's not that I'm approaching thirty." The boy, busy trying to get his own breath back, responded with a confused look.

Howell chose to miss it, instead casting about for any signs of Cadbury or a second rodent victim. "There!" Niccolo pointed to the open doorway where the gargantuan cat sat, regal but distressed. He let out a deep-throated yowl to further evidence his unhappiness.

"Poor puss," Howell cooed at him, leaping up the stairs. "Show us your teeth, now. No bits of anyone in there, I presume." Cadbury allowed himself to be picked up, but he did not take kindly to Howell prying his jaws apart to look inside. "Well, nothing recent, at any rate," he concluded grimly.

Niccolo came up the stairs more slowly, eyeing the cat warily. "_Il gato male_," he chided Cadbury. "You try to eat me. Bad cat." Cadbury squirmed out of Howell's arms and fell to the polished tile with great dignity. Lifting his tail high, he calmly marched further inside the house to show what he felt of such slander uttered against his character.

They stepped in after him, looking round warily. Niccolo's livery lay in a pile just inside the door, showing that he had been the first line of defense to fall to the Witch. "It was upstairs," Niccolo told him, looking as if his chocolate brown eyes might fill with tears again at any moment.

Howell clapped him on the shoulder, attempting to be reassuring. "You don't have to go up."

But Niccolo was shaking his head. "No, I...am brave. I can do. I show you."

Howell was about to explain that this was not the point, when Niccolo started up the stairs to the second floor. Shaking his head, he followed, extended his magician's senses and finding to his great relief no indication that Violet was still in the house. Her lingering presence could be felt in the giant hole she'd exploded through Mrs. Pentstemmon's wards and in the slithery afterglow of the murderous spell she'd cast, but no more. Howell automatically began gathering up the tendrils of her magic signature and grounding them out as they proceeded down the hall. That kind of energy left to fester could attract all sorts of unsavoury things. Especially in a house where someone had...

The door to Mrs. Pentstemmon's dressing room stood suspiciously ajar. Niccolo stopped prudently just before they reached a point where one might look inside. "Wait here," Howell told him, and the boy nodded obediently, clearly relieved that he would not have to see the carnage within. Howell watched his own hands tremble as he placed one on the doorframe and literally pulled himself forward to have a look. Perhaps Calcifer had been right about that herd of wildebeest.

Inside, Howell saw nothing but a disarray of clothes at first. It was curious, as if Violet had decided to pillage Mrs. Pentstemmon's wardrobe after she'd killed her, or perhaps Mrs. Pentstemmon had hurled shoes and dresses at the Witch in an attempt to ward her off. He stepped over an old-fashioned corset sprawled across the middle of the floor and that was when he saw them: two tiny, exquisite, pointy-toed gold shoes peeping out from behind the ornate dressing screen. Howell's throat closed up with grief, but he forced himself to go on. What if she were merely unconscious?

He rounded the corner to look, keeping back several feet, afraid to get too close for reasons that should be obvious to any coward. Mrs. Pentstemmon lay in her underdress, which was every bit as revealing as a starched, high-collared school marm's gown. She was flat on her back with her eyes wide open, her expression one of outrage and defiance still. One finger was pointing as if to chide or cast a spell of her own, but it seemed not to have been enough. As Howell inched closer, a sudden movement in the garments strewn by her side caused him to leap back. Calcifer was mistaken if he'd thought Howell _ever_ needed reminding he was a coward.

The movement coalesced into the most pathetic-looking dog Howell had ever seen. Not only did it bear a striking resemblance to the business end of a raggedy old dust-mop, but it had the sorrowful expression of ten basset hounds condensed into one. It shuffled forward on tiny feet which did not seem adequate to support its fat, ragged body and let out a wheeze, showing it could not even bark properly. Howell wondered at Violet's sense of humour for the 197th time.

"At least you're all right," he told the pathetic creature, squatting down to offer his hand. Another wheeze intimated the dog did not agree. Howell gave it a sympathetic pat before rising and casting about for Hunch's clothes. Of course, the room was covered in garments, but this was no time for humourous cross-dressing. He found the butler's uniform in a heap by the door, having passed it over at first, distracted by what lay within. Howell carried them over to the dust-mop-dog, who had not left Mrs. Pentstemmon's side. "Just a moment," the wizard told him, sliding his fingers into the raggedy mass of fur to get a proper feel for the spell the Witch had cast on him. This one was more complicated than the simple transformation she'd set on Niccolo. Apparently Hunch had given Violet more trouble, and she had repaid him in kind. Patiently Howell sorted through the knots, slowly unraveling the spell until there was enough gone to pull the whole thing apart with one sharp tug. Then he stepped back and gave Hunch some privacy while he dressed.

When after a few minutes he heard more of that pathetic wheezing, Howell turned around, afraid the spell was the recurring kind. But all he saw was Hunch kneeling on the carpet at Mrs. Pentstemmon's side, attempting not to weep in an undignified manner into a large silk handkerchief. Howell went to him and offered an awkward sideways hug. There were no words adequate for a time like this.

Not long after, Hunch sent Howell packing. The two of them had performed their first round of mourning together, and now it was time to do what Hunch said he did best: clean up. Howell left Niccolo instructions for a simple spell that would get a message to him in a hurry in case the Witch returned, but he honestly did not expect her to. She'd done nearly as much damage as she could there, and Calcifer was right; it was himself she was after.

Howell ambled back to his front door just in time to meet a messenger from the Palace. He dearly hoped it was not news that Sophie had somehow been jailed for offending the King, though at least that would have meant she was inside and safe. Suliman's wards on the Palace had held in spite of his long absence. Howell had to respect workmanship like that.

"Wizard Pendragon?" 

That was when he realised how truly awful he must look; the page was completely uncertain whether he had the right man. Howell prided himself on being a recognisable personality in Kingsbury. In his days at court, he had started whole fashion trends. And if he did not look like himself, suddenly… It was ironic as, in a way, Howell was currently more himself than he had ever been. He wondered if he even cared to fix up his appearance just now, but Howell did brush absently at his disheveled hair as he replied, somewhat testily on behalf of his wounded vanity, "Well who _else_ would it be?"

The page made no apology, but having found his intended audience seemed to want to dispatch his duty as quickly as possible. With a practiced flick of the wrist, he unrolled the scroll in his hands and bawled in a street crier's voice. "A royal proclamation from the King!" Howell thought he might go deaf, and he had a bad feeling about this. "'I hereby decree on this day 6 in the 6th month of year 6 of my reign, it shall be so noted that I, Rolland of Ingary, have appointed a new Royal Wizard—'"

"Oh, _give_ me that!" Howell snapped, yanking the scroll from the young man's grasp. This was absolute perfection. Just what had Sophie managed to do this time, recommend him highly to the King? The page gawped at him and attempted to take the scroll back so that he could complete his appointed task, but Howell held it capriciously out of reach. The last thing he needed just now was for this news to be shouted in the streets. "Thank you, that will be all." Howell knew that if he could just tip him, the page would leave. Unfortunately, he was still monetarily destitute after his shopping trip the day before.

Just then the castle door opened and Michael peered out. "Howl? Is everything all right?"

"Oh, everything is just _fantastic_," he drawled, making for the door. "Tip this good man, Michael, for this wonderful news he's just brought us, so that he may get on his way."

"_Tip_ him?" his apprentice asked in dismay, clearly feeling there were better things to do with their hard-earned money.

"You heard me," Howell told him, and disappeared into the toilet. While Michael dealt with the page, Howell scrubbed half-heartedly at the tell-tale stains on his cheeks, fiddling with his hair, which he concluded was really a hopeless cause at this point. He soon found himself bent over the sink, staring down at nothing. Mrs. Pentstemmon was gone, and it was his fault.

"Howl," Michael called softly from the other side of the door. When there was no answer, he tried again. "Howl?" And then, after a few moments more, "I did what you said." The basin of the sink was wet, which was odd, as he'd turned the tap off. Howell thought he heard the crackle of Calcifer's voice, and then the door opened. Michael paused a moment over the threshold, taking stock of the situation before striding into the bathroom and solidly putting his arms round Howell without a word. This was one of few occasions Howell did not appreciate being comforted; it only made him more weepy.

"I'm all right, Michael," he lied, patting his apprentice's arm. "Really." He extricated himself, deftly changing the subject, "And look at the simply joyous news we've just received." He turned and picked up the scroll with its dangling seals of congratulations. "I've been officially appointed the new Royal Wizard."

"Oh _no_," Michael groaned. "But I thought that's why you sent Sophie to blacken your name! So it _wouldn't_ happen."

Howell offered him an ironic smile. "_Apparently_ things did not go according to plan."

"A carriage has just drawn up outside!" Calcifer bellowed, interrupting. Howell and Michael exchanged an apprehensive look. 

Howell threw up his arms, deciding nothing mattered anymore. "_Wonderful!_" he declared. "Perhaps the King himself has arrived to congratulate me on this great honour!"

As always, Michael at least could be relied upon to keep his head. "I'll go see who it is." At the door to the bath, he turned and assured Howell, "If it's the King, I'll send him away." Howell cracked a smile at his apprentice's absurd protective streak and wandered to the doorway to listen to the exchange. His eavesdropping was foiled, however, when Michael ran out the front door.

"I'm sorry, Howell," Calcifer said, peering out at him from the grate with sad violet-flamed eyes. "She was a grand old lady." Howell merely nodded and scrubbed at his eyes with the dove-grey lace of one sleeve.

The familiar rasp and crackle of a dear voice drew him vaguely out of his grief and Howell wandered to the door absently, like a sleepwalker, still holding the forgotten scroll. He watched bemused as Michael, three royal servants, and seven Royal Troopers assisted Sophie out of the royal coach.

He caught her looking at him then, and her guilt was clearly-written on Sophie's face. Howell stepped out and tipped the sergeant an entire gold piece--which he'd just then magically liberated from one of Michael's 'secret' stashes--as payment for putting up with her. Luckily Michael did not seem to notice the amount of money he'd handed over, and Howell did not have to confess that his relief at having Sophie home and safe was worth far more than that sum. As they watched the sumptuous coach go clattering away down the street, Howell worked to put on a brave face and summon the jaunty sarcasm with which he would normally have greeted Sophie.

"I make that four horses and ten men just to get rid of one old woman," he teased. "What did you _do_ to the King?" It was an unspoken understanding between Howell and Michael that they not to tarry out in the street, considering the Witch was somewhere about and in a murderous mood. Howell backed through the door, subtly keeping an eye out while his apprentice helped Sophie back inside the castle. Once she had settled into her customary spot, and the three males heaved a communal sigh of relief that their household was once more intact, hatches battened down, Sophie answered Howell's question.

As if she were expecting a scolding, Sophie confessed that she had actually gone twice to see the King on his behalf. Howell turned and leaned on the hearth to face her, quirking a curious eyebrow as she continued her tale of calamity. When Sophie revealed she had met Violet in the street, Howell nearly fainted into the hearth with fright. It was one of his worst fears realised. Pale as death, he quickly looked away in order to conceal his reaction from her. And directly after the Witch had killed poor Mrs. Pentstemmon, too! Howell forced himself to take deep breaths, reminding himself that Sophie had somehow managed to survive the chance meeting. Meanwhile, Sophie launched into a more detailed account, not noticing Howell's reaction to her news. As she chattered away, Calcifer cast a warm glow on Howell's knees, a silent ray of comfort.

"I wish they hadn't made me leave Michael behind in the wood-paneled anteroom," Sophie was saying. "I shouldn't have got lost if he'd been there with me." 

Michael patted her sympathetically. "I wouldn't have if I'd known there was another door to that room they took you into."

Sophie leaned forward, looking earnestly into Howell's pale face. "I did my best to tell the King all those things you told me," she said. "But I think he might have anticipated your tactics, Howl. He's a sharp one, though you wouldn't think it to look at him." Sophie looked thoughtful. "Actually, I believe he portrays himself as intentionally vague. Perhaps it's handy for political games.

"Well, everything I told him just seemed to make him more certain you were the right man for the job. I kept trying to tell him you weren't, but he wasn't having it. Said it all just proved your character, to him. I was so flustered and angry, I walked out the wrong door. And that's when I realised I was lost."

Focusing on her story and remembering his own recent experiences with the King's unexpected craftiness, Howell had been feeling a bit better, but now he experienced a mild sinking feeling. "And the room you walked out into...what did it look like?"

"Gaudy, to my mind," Sophie sniffed. "Mirrors everywhere--I suppose to make it look bigger for all the well-dressed people gathered there. Oh!" She suddenly realised. "Do you suppose that was the Court?"

Howell sighed. "I know it was." No doubt she'd wandered out of the King's war room just as he'd taken off in flight from the Court ladies. "And then?"

"Then the Count of Catterack recognised me and came over to help." It took effort for Howell to hold his tongue regarding their impending lawsuit thanks to the spell Sophie had sold the Count, but he managed just barely. She was shaking her head. "But that poor young man. He seems incapable of getting anything right." Howell nodded agreement. "He had me passed right out the front door with not a sign of you or Michael, and suddenly I was in the street. I thought I would just go home and wait for you there, but the next thing I knew I was lost again!"

She grimaced in aggravated mortification and Howell felt ill. Sophie had run into the Witch because of the misdirection spells that HE had cast. He should have put in a clause for her and Michael to be immune, but he hadn't. And it had almost proved to be the death of her. He felt too ill to apologise. "It's the damned heat down here," Sophie was saying. "Makes me feel all queer and fuzzy. I even asked people on the street for directions, but no one seemed to have heard of you."

Howell prudently decided to attribute this to a very effective spell rather than anything resembling obscurity. Of course people in Kingsbury knew who he was.

"I was just about to give up all together when I passed Mrs. Pentsemmon's street. I thought I could hobble down and ask the footman for directions, but I hadn't gone three steps when she came at me, that _horrible_ woman." Sophie shuddered, and Michael gave her shoulder a little squeeze. "She _bragged_ to me of having killed Mrs. Pentstemmon!" Sophie's eyes opened wide, and Howell could see the fury and outrage there. He did not wonder she had survived her second meeting with the Witch, who was less strong-willed these days than she'd once been. Sophie's expression softened as she looked up at him. "I'm sorry, Howl." He nodded and made a gesture for her to continue. "She said she'd come looking for you, and that Mrs. Pentstemmon wouldn't tell her where you were, so she killed her."

Michael gasped. Howell leaned heavily on the hearth, and his apprentice watched him carefully as though he really was going to collapse.

"Of course she didn't say that," Sophie continued. "She thought she was being very clever, I'm sure, not telling me who it was she'd been asking after. Then she started to question me about Mrs. Pentstemmon and about you."

Howell looked at her in open panic.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not stupid. I told her I'd only ever heard of you, and that you're a wicked man. She knew I'd been going to see Mrs. Pentstemmon, but I'd never said I was, so I managed to fob that off, as well. But I had to tell her something. She was walking and walking with me down the street, and I just wanted to get _away_. So I told her I was going to see the King. She took me to the Palace and made me go up all those dratted stairs again, thinking it was funny, that--that--"

"Witch?" Calcifer offered.

"That's one word for her," Sophie growled. "I was frightened you or Michael would come out of the Palace while she was waiting and watching me, but thank heaven you didn't. It was the only thing that went right today. The guards handed me back to see the King, then, and I tried again with him. But..." She looked sheepish, considered saying more, and then decided against it at the last. "But I don't think it worked."

Howell flicked his wrist, setting the ribbons on the royal seals of his scroll flapping. "Behold the new Royal Wizard," he announced. "My name is very black." Sophie drew back with her frightened mouse look, as though expecting him to start shouting at her for having ruined his plan, and suddenly Howell could no longer hold it together. He burst out laughing, feeling nearly as mad as he'd said he was earlier. Sophie looked startled and Michael and Calcifer eyed him with concern.

"And what did she do to the Count of Catterack?" He laughed harder, picturing for the first time what the duel must have been like with the aid of Sophie's 'spell.' "I should never have let her near the King!"

Sophie became defensive, rightly thinking he was laughing at her. "I did blacken your name!" she argued. 

Howell waved a hand to show he wasn't angry about the mess. "I know. It was my miscalculation." Tallying up all the disasters of the day, misjudging the King was the least of Howell's worries. He changed the subject, because the rest didn't bear thinking on. "Now, how am I going to go to poor Mrs. Pentsemmon's funeral without the Witch knowing?" For he knew Violet well enough to know her killing the old dame had served two purposes: 1) to get revenge on him by killing someone dear to him and 2) to trap him into a situation where he would have to come out of hiding and be caught at last. Apparently, she could not wait for the curse to kick in. "Any ideas, Calcifer?"

Calcifer just looked at him for a moment. "Do you honestly think this is what Mrs. Pentstemmon would have wanted? I told you before, Howell, she died protecting you! If you go to her funeral and show yourself, you're throwing away everything she died for!"

"I can't not go," Howell told him quietly with a rueful smile. "I _can't_."

"Then you're a fool, and you'll need far more help than I can give to make it through without being caught." Calcifer dove under his logs, ending the argument, knowing Howell did not have the heart to pursue the topic.

"Well," he said, drawing himself up as straight as he could. "This has proved to be such a wonderful day, I don't believe I can stand another minute. I'm going to bed."

"The sun hasn't even set, yet," Sophie pointed out.

"Hasn't it really?" he said. "Thank you for pointing that out to me, Sophie." The look on her face as he turned to go to the stairs made Howell regret having used such a tone with her. He knew she did not deserve it, but Howell was used to taking his misery out on those around him. It was a hard habit to break, even for Sophie's sake. 

Michael hovered uncertainly between the need to look after Howell and the need to comfort Sophie. "Good night, Michael," Howell told him firmly, indicating that he intended to go upstairs alone.

"G-good night, Howl." Michael looked frightened, as if he thought the Witch might still burst in on them. Howell didn't have the energy to reassure him. And after today, he didn't feel there was anything he could take for granted, including the safety of his own home.

With one foot on the second step, Howell turned and looked back at the chair by the hearth to see that Sophie was watching him ascend. "Surviving a meeting with the Witch of the Waste is quite an accomplishment," he told her. "I don't believe I shall ever complain about your cantankerous manner again. No doubt that's what saved you." He couldn't come right out and say how glad he was she'd come home safe. If he did, Howell knew he would confess everything to her, his feelings, his fears, his hopes, all at once. When Sophie snorted and turned back to the fire, he considered it his dismissal.

Upstairs in his room, Howell crawled into bed with all his clothes on and pulled the covers up over his head. He fantasized that he'd been buried alive, perhaps in the grave next to Mrs. Pentstemmon's, a fitting end for someone who'd had a hand in her murder. Howell was too depressed to stay awake for long.

**Author's Note: **I included a few lines of DWJ's original dialogue toward the end. You can tell which lines they are (the clever ones). Wasn't able to check the Italian with a friend in advance this time, so it may be wrong.


	24. I W everyone surprisingly knows things

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Calcifer, Lettie, Mrs. Fairfax

**Rating: **T

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 24:** _In which everyone surprisingly knows things_

Howell was not sure how long he'd been asleep when he was awakened by a violent banging against the far wall of his bedroom. Throwing back the dusty bedspread he sat up, trying to rouse himself for battle, should it be necessary. In a few moments, Howell was awake enough to realise what the source of the noise was, and relaxed somewhat.

Through the wall, he could clearly hear Michael crying out in his sleep. "No! No! Go 'way! Don't! Get…!" Then his dream-inspired babbling degraded to unintelligibility once more. Howell's apprentice did not have nightmares often, or at least he hadn't done in the last two years. But when he'd first come to live at the castle, Calcifer had told him how Michael tossed and turned in his sleep. The boy himself, rambling in that anxious way he used to do when he assumed the wizard was not listening, had told Howell he often had horrible nightmares of the sea as it consumed his family. Now he wondered if the stress of the day might not have caused Michael's psyche to regress to less pleasant times.

From beyond the wall, Michael was at it once more. "No! Howl! She's coming!" Though he knew his apprentice was dreaming, the words chilled his blood. There was no doubt who Michael's nightmare featured. Howell climbed out of bed and padded in his sock feet round the corner to his apprentice's bedroom. When he got there, he saw his apprentice tossing and turning, kicking the wall, even slamming his head against it now and again – which Howell would have thought should have awakened him. He walked quietly into the room and cast the calming spell he'd invented to soothe Michael out of those old nightmares of the sea, part old wives' remedy, part sleep spell. The young man moaned in distress a few times before quieting down, finally ceasing his thrashing about.

After that, Howell knew he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep. Though, if he was honest with himself—and he rarely was--he likely had got enough, considering he'd gone to bed in the middle of the afternoon. Feeling lethargic and somewhat disturbed by Michael's nightmare, Howell plodded downstairs, not quite sure what to do with himself once he got there. He thought perhaps a bath might be nice, but he couldn't quite summon the energy to get himself there, drifting listlessly about the room instead. He glanced thoughtfully at the curtains to Sophie's cubbyhole, wondering whether he wanted her to wake or not.

"You're up early." Calcifer peered up out of his logs, having been asleep, too. Howell shrugged, feeling unusually non-verbose. "Feeling any better?" the fire demon asked. It was just out of politeness, Howell supposed. Calcifer knew better than he did what the wizard felt most of the time.

Speaking of which, he had to stop and think about his answer. "No."

"Come here, cabbage-head." Howell wandered over to the hearth and lowered himself to sit in the ashes. "Speak," the fire demon ordered.

Howell sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Mrs. Pentstemmon is dead. The Witch nearly got Sophie. And Michael is having night terrors about it all. You know how I hate to take blame, but it can hardly be laid anywhere else." His expression turned tragic as Howell came to the root of the problem. "I didn't get to say good-bye, Calcifer."

"Death is like that," the fire demon said baldly. Sympathy never came out quite right from between sharp purple teeth. Perhaps he was thinking of his own brush with it five years ago. After a moment, Calcifer asked regretfully, "You're really going to go to the funeral, aren't you?" When Howell nodded, the fire demon sighed in a shower of sparks. "I suppose we might construct a sort of misdirection spell focused on attention to go with your disguise…"

Howell smiled a little. "Thank you, Calcifer." He sat quietly, thinking over the events of yesterday. "Thank gods Sophie's all right," he said softly.

"Sophie can hold her own against the witch," Calcifer said. "She's near as powerful, and that being untrained. With a little help, one day…"

Howell's gaze turned immediately intense, then accusing. "What did you say?"

Calcifer glared back. "I'm talking about her magic. It's quite strong. Why do you think I let her into the castle to start with? I was hoping she could break our contract."

Howell had to take a moment to get his initial reaction—which was to explode in a fit of temper and betrayal--under control. Finally, he managed to swallow it down and took a deep breath. "Calcifer." The fire demon looked back at him apprehensively. "When did you think you might enlighten me about this?"

"Well, I didn't want to tell you about the contract. I knew you'd get over-excited and start dropping her unsubtle hints. You'd have spoiled it." The sour face the fire demon pulled would have been comical at any other time.

"But don't you think I had a right to know there was a witch moving into my house?" Howell demanded.

Calcifer stared at him blankly for a moment. "You didn't _know?_" One green eyebrow quirked derisively. "How could you _not_ know? Just look at the sorts of things she's done!"

Howell knew he was going to lose his temper at this rate. "Admittedly," he ground out between clenched teeth. "I've been a bit distracted since she's come to live with us."

Calcifer snorted and the fire popped. "How can you not have noticed something so obvious? And you call yourself a wizard!"

"It's your job to tell me these things, Calcifer!" Howell was swiftly losing the battle not to shout. "I don't always notice everything, you know! We're a team! We're supposed to work _together!_"

"Keep your voice down!" Calcifer hissed.

Howell's response was to cast a bubble of silence over Sophie's sleeping cubby. There was no stopping the argument now. "That was _important_, Calcifer! I would have appreciated knowing that information earlier, say perhaps _two weeks_ ago!"

"Well how was I to know you didn't?" Now the fire demon looked indignant as well as patronizing. "It's only obvious!"

"And you knew from the beginning?" Howell could not believe this information had been withheld from him for so long.

"You knew about the curse. Why didn't you know she was a witch?" Calcifer demanded, as if both were equally obvious.

"Does SHE know she's a witch?" Howell protested to illustrate his point.

"Of course not."

"Then how was _I_ to know?"

Suddenly Calcifer was at his most acerbic. "What? The only information you have is what you get from her head?"

Howell began to rise lest their discussion come to blows. At this point, he was sorely tempted to summon some water. "I'm not going to quarrel about this, Calcifer."

"Too late."

"Damnit." There were times when his friend just _asked_ for it. "I'm going to take a bath."

"Why don't you soak your head while you're at it?" Calcifer snapped.

"Sod off!" Howell stormed into the bathroom where he drew the hottest bath imaginable and climbed into it, hoping it would leech some of his aggravation away. It didn't, but he did finally relax enough to fall asleep. When the water had cooled enough to wake him, Howell saw the sun was just coming up outside the window. He needed to get out of the house, he decided., to go DO something. The nervous energy building at his helplessness in all of this, his irritation at having made one miscalculation after another, would not let him rest. The trouble was, there were so many things in his current life about which he could do nothing, Howell had a difficult time sifting through them all to find an activity that would keep him away from Calcifer until such time as he might consider forgiving the fire demon.

Finally, he hit on something. But he couldn't go to Wales immediately. The only one likely to be awake at this hour in the Parry household was Gareth, and Howell was hardly ready for that confrontation. What had Mari said? Gareth was going to 'give him a piece?' Howell thought he could do without that, regardless of whether it was a piece of his brother-in-law's fist or his mind. So what else was there?

Then he remembered the promise he'd made to Michael the night before. And as unenthused as he was to see Lettie and Mrs. Fairfax again anytime soon, Howell desperately needed something to occupy his time. He promised himself it would be a very brief visit, no matter how things went, and then he would dash off to Wales to give Neil that charm before school began.

Knowing he would be going home this morning, Howell gave in to a temporary insanity to dress comfortably. When he climbed out of the bath, he waded to the very back of his closet to dig out an old pair of black jeans and a rumpled brown Oxford. He loved his finery, but there was something very soothing about clothes from his own world and his old life that were comforting to Howell just now. After pulling them on, he didn't take much care with the rest of his appearance either, not feeling up to it today. Tying his hair back in a messy ponytail, Howell put on a few cosmetics to hide the bags under his eyes and the redness in them, but that was all.

Calcifer gave him a curious look when he came back downstairs looking as he did. "Going somewhere?"

"Out," was all the reply Howell would give, not wishing to exchange enough words to get into another argument with his friend.

"But where?" the fire demon pressed him. "Playing with fire today?"

"No," Howell said, knowing Calcifer meant Miss Angorian. "Just out."

He heard the fire demon grumbling unhappily behind him as he pulled the door open on the rolling countryside of the castle door. "Go back to sleep, Calcifer. And make sure the door is opened to no one until I return."

"…teach your grandmother to suck eggs." Howell didn't catch all of Calcifer's cranky muttering, but he thought that was just as well. "Just go on, then. 'Out.'"

Howell sighed and jumped down onto the heath without saying good-bye. He had to walk most of the way to upper folding in order to get his nerve up to go through with the visit. Howell also thought his apology could hardly go over well if he arrived so early that he woke them. So he took his time, hoping they would be properly awake when he reached Upper Folding.

By the time Howell arrived, the sun was well up, and he could see the household servants moving about the grounds on their daily chores. They looked at him strangely--Howell hoped because of his unusual attire--before returning to their tasks. He was nearly to the house when he heard some excited barking from the back yard and a grey blur came tearing round the front of the house toward him. Howell paused in apprehension, thinking it might be that terror of a collie again, but it was not. Apparently, the greyhound Lettie had first adopted so many weeks ago had returned home. This was the only one of her dogs which had not attempted to bite him, so Howell, relieved, knelt down in welcome. "Hullo, boy! You came back." He paused, thoughtful, reaching out to pet it. "As did I, I suppose. We are coincidental compatriots." Howell stroked the dog's sleek skull and pulled playfully at its ears as he gave them a good scratching. The dog rolled all over the grass in its excitement, and he had to smile in spite of his dark mood.

"What are _you _doing here?" At Lettie's warm welcome, Howell looked up. She was standing at the corner of the house, holding her basketful of freshly harvested honey as if she were seriously considering dropping it in favour of striking him with a few more bolts of magic. Minding his manners, Howell stood and bowed.

"Miss Hatter. I don't mean to disturb your schedule, but I felt I owed you a visit after the other day…"

"'Miss Hatter?!'" Lettie cried, indignant. "Well isn't _this_ a change!" Howell did his best to look innocent about the formality. "No more of your acting and pretty words, Howl," she told him, witch fire flaring up in the cerulean of her eyes. "They never worked on me anyway. And as I have no reason to be polite to you now, I demand that you be honest."

Howell winced. He was the least honest when it was demanded of him, a combination of habit and nature. But he was saved just then by Mrs. Fairfax wandering out of the house. In spite of the fact she was wearing a cheerful pink cooking apron and caked with flour up to her elbows, she did not look her usual energetic self. Howell could not help noticing her eyes were red from crying. "Oh, Lettie dear, you're back. I need your help to—" She suddenly realized something was wrong, and following her apprentice's angry gaze to Howell. "Wizard Howl!" Mrs. Fairfax exclaimed. "Now this _is _a surprise." At first when she came toward him, he felt certain an attack was imminent. But when she reached him, Mrs. Fairfax surprised him, merely putting a hand out and grasping his arm with a look of sympathy. "Oh, my dear! Such terrible news! You have heard about Mrs. Pentstemmon?"

Howell's face fell, and he nodded. Lettie, however, was outraged at this show of commiseration with the enemy. "Aunt Anabel!" she cried. "How can you speak to him so normally, after what he-?!"

Mrs. Fairfax turned to her with a patient, kind expression. "Lettie dear, in times like these we hardly need make enemies of one another. The Witch of the Waste is on the loose, kidnapping our friends and killing our loved ones. She's as much a threat to Wizard Howl as she is to us. Have some tolerance."

Lettie made a choking noise of outrage which Howell noted was very like those he'd heard Sophie make on many an occasion before storming off. The dog managed to look worried and chased after her. "Such a shock," Mrs. Fairfax continued. "That the Witch would be so bold as to go to Kingsbury and attack her directly. In her own home! It's really quite unthinkable."

"You shouldn't put anything past her," Howell replied darkly, bitter. "There's no human kindness left in her. She's capable of any cruelty or offense. It's only a matter of what she feels best serves her purposes at the moment."

Mrs. Fairfax looked at him quietly. He could see she was struggling to phrase her next statement as politically as possible. "You seem to have a bit of insight on that dubious lady."

"She and I were once intimately acquainted," Howell answered simply, surprising himself at how distanced he felt from the words. There was no chagrin or shame now, it was merely a fact. It was in the past.

Mrs. Fairfax's eyebrows rose. "I see." She looked around and then took his arm. "Well, now that Lettie has gone for one of her sulks, I'm afraid I shall have to enlist your help in the kitchen. Baking is my way of coping with grief, Mr. Pendragon, and I have been most aggrieved at the news I received last night. My oven can hardly bear it, and I have hardly enough hands to handle the task alone."

She did not give him a chance to object, slowly towing Howell toward the house as she continued her depressed prattle. In the kitchen, which truly was an explosion of desperate grief if what she had said was true, Howell was appointed an apron and made to run back and forth with ingredients and finished product, improvising cooling racks and forced to find more and more space for everything. He thought Mrs. Fairfax could have stocked Cesari's with everything she had going.

In a strange way, helping in the kitchen really was comforting. Howell's mum had not been much of a baker, but he had dangled from her apron strings as she had cooked many a meal for the Jenkins household. It was how he had learnt to cook. In a way, it was automatic for Howell to help a woman in the kitchen, and Mrs. Fairfax chatted idly to him between giving instructions. It was homey somehow, like spending the morning with one's gran.

"But that's enough of that." Mrs. Fairfax finally took a break from her own chatter. "I'm sure you're quite bored to hear about all of these mundanities. Tell me, Mr. Pendragon. How are things at home for you these days?"

"You mean to ask about Sophie." Howell cut to the chase.

Mrs. Fairfax answered honestly, quite unashamed. "She is one thing I've meant to hear about, yes."

"She's quite well, I assure you," he answered, sounding as moody as he felt.

She looked at him, and there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Do you take very good care of your captives, Wizard Howl?"

Howell huffed a tired laugh. "As you may know from the Hatter temperament, it's difficult to keep one captive."

Mrs. Fairfax discreetly went back to kneading dough. "I thought that must be a fib on your part. Sophie was always the most stubborn of the three."

Howell snorted. "I am not in the least surprised to hear it."

"A man would have to be genuinely fond of a woman to put up with a certain strong-mindedness like that." She continued to work the dough, looking at him knowingly out of the corner of her eye.

"I'm afraid I've always been frightfully well-disposed toward strong-minded women," Howell admitted.

Mrs. Fairfax smiled, her eyes back on her work. "I told Lettie there was nothing to worry about. But she seems convinced you're the worst kind of scoundrel."

"Oh, but I am," Howell said, balancing a tray of muffins precariously on top of the breadbox. "She's quite right, you know."

Mrs. Fairfax took up her rolling pin, replying sagely, "Even the worst kind of scoundrel can be made humble before the right kind of woman."

"So it seems," he replied, having both the Witch's curse and Sophie in mind.

"I thought Martha was right to trust that apprentice of yours," she went on. "Sweet boy, from the sound of it. Of course I argued on your behalf, in spite of that deplorable behaviour you showed on your last visit."

"I really must apologise for that," Howell turned to face her. "In fact, that was half the reason I came today."

"I know," she said. "I could see it in your face. But I'm afraid Lettie really isn't prepared for apologies at this point. It will take time."

"Well, I have three weeks, at least," Howell said, half to himself.

Mrs. Fairfax looked up at him. "You've already set the wedding date?"

Howell nearly fell down from shock. "If I had, it would have been without Sophie's knowledge!" he finally managed to choke out. "We are not precisely to that point in our…acquaintance."

"As I once told Mr. Fairfax, there's no time to waste with this sort of thing." Mrs. Fairfax smiled maternally at him. "'Carpe diem,' I always say." Howell pondered Sophie's reaction should he 'carpe diem' as Mrs. Fairfax was suggesting. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or tremble in fear.

Their conversation was interrupted just then by Lettie's entrance into it. "You are _not_ marrying my sister," she said firmly. "You are a dishonest, despicable, disgusting man, and I forbid it - even should you get that far. Let's face it: we all know you're not the marrying kind."

Howell had calmed enough in Mrs. Fairfax's kitchen to have a bit of fun with her. "You say such _nice_ things, Miss Hatter. One would wonder at your being an in-law."

"Stop it!" Lettie shouted. "Stop it right now! Don't even joke about marrying Sophie!"

Mrs. Fairfax approached and extended flour-covered arms as a peace offering. "Lettie, dear, do calm down."

"Aunt Anabel, you're almost as bad as he is! Don't encourage him!" She whirled on Howell. "Give me back my sister!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that just now," he answered calmly, drizzling icing on some fresh-baked scones.

Lettie smacked them onto the floor. "You can't, or you won't?" she demanded.

Howell looked up at her, utterly unaffected by her ill-temper. He could not believe he'd once thought himself in love with this shrew. "If Sophie left my house right now, she would be in grave danger," he explained slowly. "If I were the sort of man you think I am, I could let her go. But I'm not. And I won't. Does that answer your question?"

Lettie growled in helpless fury. "I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" She struck him a blow with every exclamation. "You're lying! You just don't want to give her back! This is your revenge on me for not falling in love with you!" She collapsed into a chair, weeping. Howell had to respect the utter self-centeredness that allowed her to make this situation all about herself.

If he knew anything, it was when to make an exit. "Mrs. Fairfax, it's been delightful." Howell moved swiftly to the sink to wash his hands. "I'm sure I shall see you at the funeral tomorrow - but you will not see me. I must go in disguise in order to avoid the Witch of the Waste." Drying on an almost flour-free dish towel, Howell finished with a warning. "Do take care, because she's sure to come."

Mrs. Fairfax's eyes grew round in fear, and she nodded. "If there's anything I might do to help, Mr. Pendragon..."

Just then Lettie screamed and cried harder because no one was paying attention to her. Mrs. Fairfax was forced to go over and pat her soothingly on the back. For his part, Howell ignored it. "Thank you, Mrs. Fairfax, no. I shall be fine."

In the doorway preparing to take his leave, he focused on Lettie briefly. "I realise you have no proof of what I tell you but my words. When I can, I shall make Sophie available to answer your questions herself." He looked up at Mrs. Fairfax. "An invitation to tea, perhaps. I'll let you know when the opportunity arises. Until then, ladies..." Howell bowed and showed himself out as Mrs. Fairfax was still busy attending to Lettie, whose selfish tears had not abated one bit.

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**Author's Note:** An entire chapter without having to steal DWJ's dialog! Less work and less guilt both. Things are getting increasingly bad for Howl, and the funeral won't occur for a few more chapters yet. The next will feature an out-of-book conversation with Miss Angorian.


	25. Hot and Cold

**Characters this chapter:** Howl, Neil Parry, Miss Angorian, Sophie, Michael, Calcifer

**Rating: **K+

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**A Woman True and Fair**

**Chapter 25:** _Hot and Cold_

Howell couldn't get out of Upper Folding fast enough. Listening to his character being assassinated wasn't half as amusing today, somehow, as it usually was. He worried how much influence Lettie would have over Sophie when she finally did realise her feelings for him and he could begin to be honest with her. If it was more than not very much, there could be trouble. In his present mood, Howell could have brooded over the conundrum for some time, but he just didn't have the leisure for brooding today. Not, that was, if he was going to be back at the castle before Michael and Sophie awakened.

Howell didn't want Sophie to see him walk back out through the Wales door. In fact, he wanted her nowhere near Wales right now. So, instead of going back to the moving castle and using his own gateway, he transported himself to a secret spring in the Folding Valley where he knew another gateway was hidden. This one let out right in Aberaman, so there would be no long train ride in from the park.

When he arrived in Wales, Howell realised he had spent too much time in Mrs. Fairfax's kitchen. School children filed past him in small groups on their way to _ysgol gyfun_. Neil would have already left the house as well. If he could just remember which school it was his nephew attended... No, that was a lost cause. Howell had no memory for details that did not himself. So he performed a divination spell, instead. It was faster, and would tell him if Neil had stayed home from school or was perhaps running late. Performing a spell in Wales right now would no doubt alert the fire demon to his presence, but she already had him over a barrel. Howell did not think he could make it any worse, and he wanted to get the protective charm to his nephew as soon as possible.

The pendulum led him to the school not a moment too soon. Howell spied Neil trudging up the path to the doors. "Neil!" he shouted. Other heads turned, but not his nephew's. "Neil Parry!" The boy finally turned round and glowered when he saw who it was. Nevertheless, he trudged over. Even an unexpected visit from one's irresponsible uncle was not a fate worse than school.

"What d'you want?" he grunted.

Howell leaned against the fence, pretending to be relaxed. "Another lovely greeting. You know, Neil, if you're not careful, you might hurt your uncle's feelings." His nephew stared at him, mute. His expression did not change. How quickly they grew up. "And who, may I ask was it gave you that brilliant new game last night?"

"Sorry," Neil said, somewhat chastened. "It's just I'm going to be late. Miss Angorian gives detention for tardies."

Howell smirked. "Well, I shall be your excuse. Don't worry, she can blame me." But he was hardly as cavalier as he pretended. It disturbed him to hear that Miss Angorian was not only Neil's English tutor but took his attendance in the mornings as well. His reason for having come seemed more pressing than ever. "There's something I meant to give you last night, but I'd forgot. Something that goes with the game."

"Really?" Neil asked, ignoring the first school bell now he was properly interested. "Is it cheating instructions? Albert and I couldn't work out how to get back in the moving castle door. We kept getting stuck out on the hillside."

Howell chortled at the idea. "No, I'm afraid not. Though if that happens again, just ask the fire demon to open the door for you."

Neil looked puzzled. "You can just ask him? But he's so uncooperative."

"Things are not always what they seem in that game," Howell told him with an egotistical smirk.

"Oh," Neil replied, profoundly. "So what is it?"

Howell pretended to be fishing inside his rugby jacket pockets for it. "Well, it's a sort of. Key ring. Shaped like your favourite character."

"The wizard's apprentice?" Neil asked excitedly.

Howell frowned. "I suppose." But he couldn't keep from asking, "What about the wizard? You don't like him?"

Neil snorted. "Ugh, what a poof!" He wrinkled his nose. "You should see the sorts of clothes he wears. He looks like a woman!" And, as if that were not enough of an insult, he added, "Even Albert wouldn't play him. He chose the old lady, instead. At least she has a stick to beat people with."

"But," Howell spluttered. "The wizard is the most powerful player-character!"

Neil wrinkled his nose again and waved a hand. "Pass." Apparently keen fashion sense was more of a liability than an asset in the world of Neil Parry.

It took Howell a moment to get his acute feelings on the matter under control. In the meantime, the tardy bell rang. When he'd got his bruised ego under control, Howell solidified his tracking and protection spell into a small plastic figurine of Michael, a key ring attached to the cowlick in his hair. He brought his hand out of his pocket and offered it to Neil. "Well, at any rate, there you are."

"Jee, thanks!" Neil said, all smiles now. "I can put my house key on it!"

"Good idea," Howell said. "Just be sure you don't lose it. Don't show it about in class and get it taken away by the tutor."

"Oh, I won't," Neil replied religiously. "Miss Angorian doesn't allow anything like that during class. And I wouldn't give away my house key."

"Good lad." Howell gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Well, shall we go? I believe I owe your Miss Angorian an explanation of why you're tardy."

"Tell her something convincing," Neil suggested. "I don't want detention."

"Never fear," he told him, ushering Neil ahead of him through the doors, "Uncle Howell is here." His nephew did not look terribly reassured by this.

Neil led the way down several narrow halls smelling of janitorial products as a doomed man walks the green mile. When they reached the proper door, Neil paused and looked awkward. Howell did not mind opening the door himself, and did so. Two dozen faces turned to look at him as Miss Angorian suddenly stopped her lecture at the front of the room. Her eyes seemed to burn as she glared at his interruption.

"Miss Angorian," Howell smiled most charmingly. "May I see you for a moment?"

There were curious looks and a snicker or two from the class. "I don't see why I should," she snapped, dour and prim as ever. "You have no authority to interrupt my classroom, Howell Jenkins." Expressions changed as she said the name, and various scabby-kneed girls bent forward over their desks to get a better look at him. Howell obliged them by posing very elegantly, yet nonchalantly, leaning against the door frame. "I suppose you have come to tell me why your nephew has arrived late to school today?"

As if this were his cue, Neil rushed past, head ducked low as if to avoid a blow. He slid into his seat to watch with the rest of their audience. "That," Howell smiled, "And to confirm our date for supper this evening." He winked, and the class erupted in excited murmurs.

The fire demon turned on them severely. "There will be absolutely none of that!" she all but shouted. Her glare silenced the room immediately. "You!" she turned back and leveled that glare at Howell, "will step outside with me for a moment. And don't think for a minute that I am going anywhere with you."

"But you've just agreed to come outside with me," Howell grinned.

"Because you insist on disrupting my class!" she snapped. "And not on a date!"

"Perhaps just coffee, then?" There were titters from the class, and Miss Angorian curtly shut the door on them.

"Mr. Jenkins," she began, "I do not tolerate this kind of insolence and inconsideration from my students, and I shall not tolerate it from you, either. If you have something to say to me, make it brief. I am paid to educate these children, not chat with you."

"Very well," Howell said, raising his hands in surrender. "I merely wanted to let you know that it's my fault Neil was late this morning. If you want to assign someone detention, you should assign it to me."

"Have no doubt," she told him sternly, "If I could, I would."

"Miss Angorian," Howell tittered. "What an interesting way you have of flirting with a man."

"I suggest you not flatter yourself." She glared at him, adding, "If it is even in your power to do so."

"I am duly chastised," he told her, unrepentant. "Now about that cup of coffee..."

"Oh, fine!" she pretended to relent at last. "If it will get you to leave me alone so that I may return to my job, I'll agree to have coffee with you."

"And don't give Neil detention for being tardy," Howell added.

"It will only be a very brief cup of coffee," she bargained.

"Done."

"Then, if you'll excuse me. Some of us have jobs to get back to," she said pointedly.

Howell grinned innocently and waved. "Until next week, then."

"Fine." She pretended to storm back to her classroom, which Howell noted with pride he had utterly disrupted, his eyes following the paper airplane that went sailing past the door as Miss Angorian opened it. He knew this had all been part of their plan, to lure him in even before the curse came to fruition. Yet the fire demon had played her part almost too well. If Howell had given up after her treatment yesterday, he would never have procured the fateful date.

Deciding he would worry about what to do over coffee when the time came, Howell left the school and walked to Megan's, intending to let himself back into the castle. It was early enough, Sophie would probably not see from whence he was returning. A chill wind blew his hair askew as he made his way to Rivendell. The sky was a slate grey with no sign of sun. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and thought how ridiculous it was to be wishing for gloves in June. Why did the weather in Wales always have to be so miserable?

By the time he reached the street, the eternal drizzle had sped up to a steady rain, and Howell was quite miserable outside as inside. He looked around to make sure none of the neighbours were out to watch him walk into the castle, and that Megan was not coming or going on errands with Mari. It would be unfortunate to run into his sister again after yesterday. Howell might have been happy to climb the stairs to the porch if it had not been leaky. He seemed to get even more wet standing before the door than he'd gotten walking in the rain. Howell was looking forward to standing in front of the hearth when he got home. Unfortunately, achieving that goal turned out to be more difficult than it should have been.

Casting the spell to unlock the special safety precautions he and Calcifer had constructed, Howell tried the door, but it would not budge. He tried again, several more times, and added a variation on an unlocking spell to get the over-protected door to obey him without luck. He even changed his clothes, thinking perhaps the spell had not recognized him in his Welsh attire. As he did so, it took an effort not to think about what Neil had said about 'the wizard's' clothes. He had never had to do so before, but Howell tried unlocking Megan's door before trying the one that led to the castle. Still nothing. By this point, he was cross as well as wet and miserable. If he could have got away with it, he would have shouted to Calcifer to open the door. But he did not need Megan's neighbours telling stories of him standing on her front porch, shouting out the Goetia.

Stepping back to consider the problem from a more calm standpoint, Howell recognized that unlocking the door did not seem to be the problem, for the knob turned just as it was supposed to do. This meant that the door must have been blocked from the inside. Had Sophie realised he'd gone to Wales and locked him out from jealousy, assuming he'd gone to court "Miss Angorian"? On any other day, Howell might have chuckled at this, but not now when he felt like a drowned rat and could feel a cold creeping into his throat.

If it was blocked, there was only one thing to do: use brute force to unblock it. Howell used his rugby training to throw himself against the door, hoping that it was merely a chair she'd put against the door knob. He did not weigh enough to budge much more than that. When he jarred his shoulder without getting the door to do more than rattle a bit, Howell's temper snapped. He was going to get back home and stand in front of his fireplace if it took exploding the door in. And that was just what he did, hurling a powerful combat spell against it that could have blown a hole in Megan's house, if he'd not aimed it precisely. The door, well-insulated with protection spells as it was, remained intact, but something splintered and exploded inwards beyond it. Howell stepped inside and glared at the culprit, who was standing alone in the center of the room, looking rather frightened. "This is a bit much, Sophie!" he chastised her. "I do live here!"

Just as he began to feel bad for yelling at her, the frightened mousy look on her face changed to one of her holier-than-thous. After pointedly looking at the knob turned to black-down, she demanded to know where he'd been. So Howell had guessed correctly the reason she'd locked him out. Instead of losing his temper, he chose to sneeze, a blatant play for sympathy. Then he told her with a pathetic look known to inspire guilt that he'd been out in the rain. When this inspired neither guilt nor sympathy from Sophie, who only raised an accusing eyebrow, he snapped that where he'd been was not her concern.

Howell's voice was already starting to go. He desperately needed a throat lozenge. He was torn between conjuring one and giving Sophie the row she seemed to want when Howell caught Michael walking casually out of the broom cupboard – or attempting to do so in a casual manner. This spoke of a story he should probably hear. Bending to examine one of the large wood splinters that now littered the floor, he asked what the planks had been meant to do precisely. Michael froze on his way out of the cupboard and hung his head guiltily before confessing it was his doing.

So his apprentice didn't trust him to protect them in his own home? Didn't he know Howell would never have left if he'd felt they would be in danger if he did? Well, perhaps Michael did think that. Howell was growing weary of having his character slandered today, especially since most of it was well-deserved. "You must think I don't know my business," he said, becoming more annoyed by the moment. "I have so many misdirection spells out that most people wouldn't find us at all." After he explained this, Howell paused, hoping Sophie would not put two and two together and realize why it was she hadn't been able to find her way back to the Kingsbury entrance yesterday. When she did not shout or glower at him meaningfully, he continued, "I give even the Witch three days." That said, he turned his attention to Calcifer, demanding a hot drink.

But as Howell began his sodden trek over to the hearth, leaving a trail of wet footprints, his clothes dripping rain, the fire demon dove down under his logs, telling him to stay away, observing brilliantly that he was wet, as if Howell hadn't noticed. He should have known the old coward would not be sympathetic to his plight. Howell turned to plead with Sophie, who still looked annoyed he'd come through the gateway to Wales.

She crossed her arms over her chest, her stance immovable toward feeling anything but disgust for him, as usual. "What about Lettie?"

Lettie was the last person Howell wanted to think of right now. He thought his cheek might still be red from where she'd slapped him. "I'm soaked through," he pleaded. "I think I should have a hot drink." Sophie must be quite angry with him indeed if she was able to ignore her incessant mothering instinct when he was pouting at her so endearingly.

"And I said what about Lettie Hatter?" she repeated.

Howell simply couldn't fathom the woman. How was she now suddenly in favour of his getting together with her sister? Hadn't she come out to Mrs. Fairfax's in order to warn Lettie against him? What was this, then, a change of heart? Did she no longer secretly care for him at all? Howell lost hold of his temper for the second time today. He was not about to discuss his failure with Lettie with anyone, much less her bossy elder sister whom he happened to love better. "Bother you, then!" he swore, and cast a spell to dry himself out. With great relief, he stepped away from the water that had been plaguing him for the last hour. But it was not enough. He could feel his lymph nodes swelling by the moment.

Howell went to the cupboard to retrieve the kettle, feeling quite martyred. He decided he was not speaking to Sophie or Calcifer. So he addressed Michael, instead. "The world is full of hard-hearted women, Michael." He filled the kettle with water before banging it meaningly on top of the logs. "I can name three without stopping to think." He did not add that two of them were named Hatter.

Sophie rightly recognized he was saying it to get back at her, and answered, "One of them being Miss Angorian?"

Howell was somewhat mollified that she'd guessed wrong. He was not about to tell Sophie Miss Angorian was not a woman at all. In fact, he did not answer her. He was not speaking to her. He felt it unduly cruel of her to have become argumentative with him in his time of need. If he got a proper cold now, he would blame her hard-heartedness.

He could not, unfortunately, ignore Calcifer for long, as they had important business to discuss. "Right," Howell said, sitting down in Sophie's chair while ignominiously ignoring Sophie's presence in case she should decide to start something else. "We're moving the castle. Calcifer? Michael? Any ideas for new entrances?"

"Not the Porthaven entrance!" Calcifer said, his voice shrill with fear. He was half under his logs again, as if he thought Howell might be hiding rain somewhere, waiting to douse him with hit.

Howell sighed, feeling his nose begin to go stuffy. The chill of Wales had got into his bones, and he was not looking forward to the way it seemed to want to work itself back out. "All right. Any suggestions for where we _should _move any of the entrances?" he asked.

"Somewhere there are no women to go gadding off with," Sophie grumbled, stabbing her needle into the remains of his blue and silver suit she was tormenting. Howell ignored her.

"What about Market Chipping?" Michael asked, tentatively.

Howell turned in time to see him exchange a look with Sophie. Did she know of his apprentice and the Lettie at Cesari's, as well? "Perhaps," he replied, "if there's real estate available in town."

"Oh, I'm sure there's _some_thing," Michael said, sounding a bit desperate. "I'd be happy to look into it."

"Good. Any other ideas?"

Sophie, who was apparently tired of being ignored, made a suggestion for where Howell could put an entrance which he did not find terribly suitable, especially given the language involved. He magnanimously ignored it, along with Calcifer's unkind sniggering.

"Fine," Howell said. "If there are no other ideas, I leave the matter open to your consideration. Mrs. Pentstemmon's funeral is my primary concern, so none of this will happen before tomorrow. In the meanwhile, Michael, I'm going to need you to go into town and get various supplies for the operation." He stood and went over to the much-abused workbench to hunt out a pen and paper. As he continued to speak, Howell began to write out a list of supplies. "First, we'll have to locate each of the anchor sigils in the house..."

"I said **don't** move the Porthaven entrance!" Calcifer wailed.

Howell felt his nose begin to drip and became even more annoyed with the fire demon's single-mindedness. "I don't think we need move the Porthaven entrance," he answered testily, before summoning a tissue and blowing his runny nose on it. "But I want the castle well away from anywhere it's been before and the Kingsbury entrance shut down." Sophie snorted and muttered something about despicable cowards.

He was just about to glare at her over the tissue he was still holding to his nose when there came a knock at the door. Howell, Michael, and Calcifer jumped in tandem and stared apprehensively at the door, as if expecting it to explode inward again. Perhaps Sophie was still disgruntled at being ignored, or perhaps she thought they should open the door, for she seemed to get very annoyed just then, muttering loudly to her sewing. "I must have been mad!"

"Past tense?" Howell asked softly, and Michael elbowed him sharply in the ribs, trying not to laugh at what was quickly becoming a running joke between them. They waited, tense, for a few minutes until the person knocking gave up and went away.

Michael had lived with Howell long enough to have learned his trick of changing the subject so less attention was drawn to the fact of his cowardice, and he used it now. "What about the black-down entrance?" he asked.

"That stays," Howell answered without having to think. His throat was beginning to close up with mucus, and he summoned another tissue, trying to make a game of it with the hand gestures he used. He knew he was going to have to summon many more before this cold had run its course. Sophie snorted, as if she'd known he was going to say that. Still jealous of Miss Angorian, it would seem. Howell let it go, because her jealousy was a comfort to him. If Sophie did not understand that his family was on the other side and he would not bear to be separated from them permanently, it did not bear explaining.

Howell talked Michael and Calcifer through the process they would need to move tomorrow. After several minutes, his sentences began to be punctuated with sneezes, and he found himself needing more tissues. As time went on, Howell would have to stop for a fit of coughing now and then. His head became so stuffy he could hardly hear Sophie's disapproving grunts and snorts anymore. When just sitting on his chair was proving a dizzying task, Howell slumped melodramatically. "Oh, why is it that whenever I go to Wales I always come back with a cold!" Howell noticed his voice had gone from sexy to croaky and thought perhaps it was time to stop speaking for now. He considered summoning whole boxes of tissue instead of just fistfuls.

Sophie snorted her opinion on the matter, but all Howell's plugged ears could make out was a brief syllable in her unhappy tone. "Did you say something?" he turned around to look at her. His voice made it into more of a genuine question than the threat he'd intended; Howell knew she'd made a smart remark of some kind.

"No," she answered, though this did not stop her from voicing her opinion on the matter now. "But I was thinking that people who run away from everything deserve every cold they get!" Howell's mouth opened and closed in indignation, and he felt genuinely hurt. She was wishing this on him? Well that was all he needed: being cursed by two witches at once. He shuddered to think the sort of things Lettie was currently wishing on him. But Sophie was not finished. "People who are appointed to do something by the King and go courting in the rain instead have only themselves to blame."

Howell knew he was feeling truly ill when he became defensive instead of just slithering out like he normally would have. "You don't know everything I do, Mrs. Moralizer," he snapped with dignity. "Want me to write out a list before I go out another time?" It was rather like the nagging wife, asking him to justify every moment of his absence from home. But Howell was too aggravated by Sophie's words to be amused. "I have _looked_ for Prince Justin." And that was the terrible truth of it. "Courting isn't the only thing I do when I go out." Though he wasn't about to give her any clues to what the rest was. Howell's noble pastimes were his shameful, private business. Sophie added insult to injury by refusing to believe his claim, demanding to know when he'd allegedly performed this noble deed.

Yes, Howell knew he was ill, because the insults just fell out of his mouth, like that fairy tale about the girl who spoke snakes and toads. "Oh, how your ears flap and your long nose twitches!" He really did not appreciate being disbelieved on those rare occasions when he chose to tell the truth. "I looked when he first disappeared, of course. I was curious to know what Prince Justin was doing up this way, when everyone knew Suliman had gone to the Waste. I think someone must have sold him a dud finding spell, because he went right over into the Folding Valley and bought another from Mrs. Fairfax. And that fetched him back this way, fairly naturally, where he stopped at the castle and Michael sold him another finding spell and a disguise spell--"

As Howell had spoken, Michael had turned pale, and his eyes grew wide. "Was that man in the green uniform Prince _Justin_?" he interrupted.

"Yes, but I didn't mention the matter before." Howell had not been home at the time, his brilliant mind had merely put the pieces together after the fact with Michael's retelling and his own research on the missing Prince. He explained further why he'd kept his apprentice in the dark, "Because the King might have thought you should have had the sense to sell him another dud. I had a conscience about it." And he had. Apart from the fact Howell did not want to become known as a Wizard who sold dud spells. That was not the kind of reputation he'd been fostering in Ingary for the last five years.

"Conscience," he leaned forward, stressing the word for Sophie's benefit. "Notice that word, Mrs. Longnose. I had a conscience." Howell's point was made less firm by the fact both nostrils were dripping a clear, viscous liquid down his face by this point. He conjured another fistful of tissue and plugged the dam, knowing his eyes were red and puffy as tomatoes, but giving Sophie the best glare he could out of them anyway.

When, on top of everything else, Howell's stomach gave an uncomfortably lurch, he gathered himself with as much dignity as he could muster, deciding that further arrangements - as well as arguments with Sophie - could wait until tomorrow. "I feel ill," Howell announced to his audience of three. "I'm going to bed, where I may die." Calcifer leaned out of the grate to watch the wizard wobble over to the stairs, as if hoping Howell might do just that. At least Michael looked somewhat sympathetic. Sophie did not even look up from her sewing. "Bury me beside Mrs. Pentstemmon," he adjured them as Howell pulled himself self-pityingly up the stairs.

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**Author's Note:** A lot of DWJ dialogue in this one, once Howl gets home. A _lot_.   
I'm not all together happy with this chapter, but this is the best I was going to do and meet the deadline. I'm facing a major move in the next two months, and I'm afraid that's going to take up the bulk of my attention for a while. I'm not sure when I'll be updating again. I will update again, I'm just not sure if it will be before or after the move.

Thanks to those patient few who've stuck with me.


	26. Tea Party of the Damned

**Characters this chapter: **Howl, Michael, Sophie, Percival (with brief cameos by Mari, Megan, and Neil Parry)

**Rating:**T

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**Chapter 26:** _Tea Party of the Damned_

In his bedroom, Howell had just enough energy to set his tea by the bedside and cast a spell exchanging his grey and scarlet suit for his long nightgown before falling into bed. Lying flat on his back, he found his chest so congested it was difficult to breathe. Howell's answer was to prop himself up with all twenty of his dusty pillows. It made breathing a bit easier and afforded a vantage point from which to watch the depressing drizzle that had caused this cold from his window.

Still he could not quite summon the necessary peace of mind to fall asleep. And he hated to think of his nose dribbling onto the pillows. So he simply lay there for a time feeling sorry for himself, and thinking.

Howell decided he had done his duty by Michael going to make his excuses and apologies to the other Lettie and Mrs. Fairfax this morning. And whereas the old lady did not seem to be holding a grudge at all against him any longer, Sophie's sister could hardly have been more hostile toward him. And the things she'd said!

Oddly enough, Howell hadn't really been bothered by it much. He'd been called worse, that was certain. But what _had_ concerned him was Lettie's threat to come between Sophie and himself. Howell thought it best for his emotional well-being not to estimate the possibilities of such an attempt being successful.

Likewise, going to Wales to look after his family seemed to have done more harm than good. Just what had it earned him? His masculinity being questioned by his nephew, a date with a fire demon who was hoping to kill him, and a terrible cold. All told, Howell felt very unappreciated. All that hard work and effort, and nary a thank you to be found. Just insults.

Why, even now he was being ignored on his deathbed. Howell pictured what the scene must be downstairs, Sophie sewing happily away in front of the fire, hoping his death would come soon, and Michael sitting idly by, telling her jokes. Perhaps he and Calcifer were poking fun at Howell again as they had at breakfast the day before.

He simply could not bear the thought. Bother the lot of them. Howell was not about to let them forget he existed.

Knowing from years of experience at manipulation that guilt could work wonders, Howell decided to play a game the objective of which was to see how quickly someone would come to his aid. He made sure the frog was solidly in his throat and did a soft test-run or two before calling out to those traitors ignoring him downstairs. "Help me, someone!" he warbled pathetically. "I'm dying of neglect up here!" From the sounds of the feet on the stairs, it was Michael, which was a bit disappointing, but not surprising. It was seven seconds before his head appeared round the door. Howell counted.

"What can I do?" he asked.

"I think," Howell sighed, melodramatically, laying a lacy sleeve to his clammy forehead, "this tea will do me no good without some lemon to help clear my sinuses."

Michael hesitated, uncertain. "Lemon?" He wrung his hands. "I'll ask Sophie if we have any."

"Don't bother," Howell told him. "She'll only give you something like alum, instead."

"Calm down, Howl," Michael said, seeing his self-pitying frown. "She doesn't want you dead."

"Oh doesn't she?" Howell asked in a martyred tone. Michael opened his mouth to reply, when Howell went on. "Did you hear the way she spoke to me a moment ago? Saying I deserved this cold. As if anyone deserves a cold! I'm quite unloved in this house, Michael."

"That's not true," his apprentice said, looking concerned. Just then, their little play was interrupted by a pounding on the door. Michael jumped, and Howell was suddenly deep beneath his blankets. The pounding continued for what seemed an eternity.

By the end, Howell poked his head out and became annoyed. "How inconsiderate!" he exclaimed. "Every business has to be closed SOMEtimes. It's not as if we had an appointment with anyone today." He looked over at Michael, suddenly curious. "Did we?"

Michael poked his head out from inside Howell's shoe closet. "No. No one asked for spells yesterday." The rude person at the door gave it one last irate bang, sending Michael darting straight back into the closet.

"Careful of those shoe trees!" Howell croaked. "Some of those are irreplaceable." When there were no further hammerings, his apprentice crept back out.

"Er. Anyway," Michael said. "I'll go see about that lemon."

"And honey!" Howell called out as he was almost out of the room. "I can't drink sour tea."

Michael nodded and hurried off before Howell could ask for anything else. When he came back 320 seconds later - Howell counted - Michael handed over the items and made as if to leave immediately again.

Unfortunately for him, Howell was still bored. "Michael, what are you doing?"

His apprentice turned around, looking as if he were in trouble. "Working on that homework spell we got back."

"Oh."

"Let me know if you need anything else." And he turned to go again.

"Actually," Howell delayed him again. "Now that you ask, I think I shall need a book to read. I'm too sick to sleep."

Michael turned and looked pointedly at the bookcase not an arm's length from the bedside. "Which book?"

"Not those." Howell felt finicky. "One from downstairs."

"All right." Michael was not near exhausted yet. "Which one?"

"_The Duchess of Malfy_. I feel like reading about faithful women." His apprentice made no comment, but disappeared downstairs once more. He was back 200 seconds later.

"Here you are."

"You knew right where it was."

Michael beamed. "I looked at it, once. I thought it was some book on manners, and the cover intrigued me."

"But then you found out it was a play," Howell smiled wanly. Michael looked sheepish and nodded. "You know you can borrow any of my non-spell books anytime you like."

His apprentice acquired the awkward look of the barely-literate who are not at all interested in literature, politely nodding in acknowledgement of the offer he would never take advantage of. As he left once more, Howell wondered if he should talk to Calcifer about just what texts he'd utilised in teaching Michael to read. Then he decided it wasn't worth the argument.

For a brief moment, Howell experienced panic that perhaps Sophie was just as uninterested in fine literature as Michael. What a dull marriage that would be. Then he remembered that Lettie was not going to let them marry in any case, and dropped the line of thought all together, narrowly dodging a wave of hopelessness.

When Howell opened the book and attempted to read the scene where Ferdinand gives the Duchess what for, his head swam, as did the words across the page. He had to abandon his intent to read, which was most disappointing. Why was it that when you were sick in bed - which was the perfect time to do a bit of leisure reading - you never could seem to manage it, or if you did, you couldn't enjoy it? That seemed awfully unfair somehow.

Howell gazed out the window at the wet swing and rusty swing set, feeling forlorn. He took a sip of his newly-infused-with-lemon tea and honey, cleverly managing to get it down the wrong way. Howell thought perhaps he should have sat up to drink, but it was too late now as he was preoccupied choking, coughing, and getting scalding tea onto his bedspread and nightgown in the process.

After he'd coughed for what seemed to be a good five minutes, Howell's windpipe was clear once more, and he could breathe properly. Also, Michael was in the doorway, looking concerned. "Are you all right?"

"No," Howell pouted. "I'm sick. I may be dying."

"I don't think you're dying," Michael offered tentatively.

"Well, thank you for the sympathy!" Howell stared out the window, feeling martyred.

"Er..." Michael paused, trying to think of how to salvage the situation. "I'll go get you some cough mixture," he offered finally before dashing back down the stairs.

Howell did not really feel he had a proper cough, but perhaps it wouldn't hurt to take something preventatively. When Michael returned with the bottle, extending it like a peace offering, Howell stared at it. "What's wrong?" Michael asked.

"You forgot the spoon. How am I supposed to take it without a spoon?"

"Oh. Er..." Michael half-pointed discreetly to the spoon resting on Howell's tea saucer.

"I can't use that spoon," Howell explained, enjoying being a brat. "Then my tea would taste like cough mixture."

Michael was beginning to look put-upon, but he apologised and ran back downstairs for a spoon. Howell thought his apprentice's habits likely harked back to the days when there might only be one clean spoon in the house. But now Sophie was with them they didn't have that problem anymore. And Howell was bloody well going to use as many spoons as he liked. He was sick, after all, the perfect excuse to be unreasonable.

His apprentice returned in 350 seconds, no doubt having stopped to cast a meaningful glance at Calcifer, or tell Sophie how unreasonable Howell as being. Howell cherished a vague hope she would come up and scold him for it, but it was just Michael who returned. "Here," he said, offering the spoon to him handle-first, like a sword.

"Thank you, Michael."

"You're welcome." Though his tone did not sound as if Howell was welcome.

For this reason, after Michael left Howell decided to give him a few minutes to calm down. He took a spoonful of cough mixture, screwing his face up. No matter how congested he was, Howell could always taste that dreadful stuff. If he didn't know better, he'd think it had been invented by a dark wizard. But the only pharmacist wizard Howell knew in his world was Ben Sullivan, and he wasn't making any more prescriptions or potions these days. Howell decidedly turned away from that dark subject, though it lingered like the bitter taste of cough mixture on his tongue.

Speaking of which, Howell felt no different after having taken it. No better or worse, save the vile taste lingering in his mouth. He decided that if he was to take medicine for his cold, he should perhaps address the problems he had rather than the ones he hadn't.

Howell called Michael back up and asked for nose drops. Those only helped for two seconds. And he noticed his throat more, after, so he called Michael again to bring him some throat pastilles. The throat pastilles made Howell's throat itch, and so he called for some gargle and a bowl to spit it into. Michael fulfilled all of these requests dutifully, but he no longer smiled or told Howell to call if he needed anything. The last trip, he made a rude gesture on his way out Howell doubted very much he'd been meant to see.

Of course, this only decided Howell on further harassment of his apprentice, of whom he next demanded a pen and paper, followed by three more books. By the end, Michael was quite red in the face, though whether his hue stemmed from all of his trips up and down the stairs or his irritation with Howell was not yet apparent. At least Howell's requests had given him sufficient excuse to ignore the frequent intervals of knocking on the front door. And Howell's nervousness at the sound only inspired him to think of more tasks for Michael to perform.

"Is that all?" Michael asked when he'd brought up the third book in five minutes.

Howell pretended to think about it. "Yes." And after a pause, "Thank you, Michael."

His apprentice nodded, looking exhausted, and stumbled back down the stairs.

Howell wrote three more lines of wobbly-handed poetry before calling for Michael again. This time, his apprentice looked ready to give him a piece of his mind. "Look, Howl--"

"Just one more thing, Michael." His apprentice looked wary. "One more thing, and I won't bother you until lunch."

"All right," Michael agreed. "What?"

"This tea is cold." Howell handed it to him. "Would you warm me another cup, and add an infusion of willowbark this time?"

Michael nodded. "No spitting in it!" Howell warned him.

His apprentice gave him an odd look. "Why would I do that?"

Such a kind soul. Of course such a thing would never have occurred to Michael, Howell realised. Those other souls in the house, however… "Well, then don't let Sophie do it, either," Howell warned.

Michael looked at him as if he were clearly losing his mind and left. When he returned with the willowbark tea, Howell thanked him and settled down to making a list of supplies he would need to move the castle tomorrow. He must have been tired, for in the middle of writing "chalk dust", he dozed off.

Howell awoke a short time later to find a nice, dark ink stain on his dusty blanket, and the dubious letters "lk" scrawled across his wrist. He sighed and cast a cleaning spell. Then his stomach rumbled. He rang the bell at his bedside, and Michael arrived in 30 seconds. Howell counted.

"Lunch?"

"Yes," said Howell. "I think I've had enough of warm liquids. A bacon sandwich sounds wonderful."

"Are you sure?" Michael looked at him dubiously.

"I haven't the flu, Michael."

"I'll ask Calcifer," he said, and disappeared back downstairs. Howell heard the faint murmurings of Michael bargaining with Sophie and Calcifer. Whatever he'd said must have worked, because he caught the smell of frying pork not long after, and his apprentice was back with a beautiful bacon and toast sandwich not half an hour later.

"I love you, Michael," Howell told him, his stomach rumbling loudly as he took the plate.

Michael looked at him warily. "I love you, too, Howell," he said, looking a bit embarrassed, and as though he was wondering if they were playing a game.

Howell took the first glorious bite of the crunchy, greasy sandwich. "I also love how you manage Sophie. Someday you must teach me how it's done."

Michael looked offended. "I don't 'manage' her, Howl. I just treat her like a normal person." He walked to the door and looked back, disapprovingly. "You should try it sometime."

Howell waved his sandwich in a cheeky salute. Alone once more, he finished his list of supplies, crunching away on his lunch. The only thing that would have made it better would've been some salt and vinegar crisps. Unfortunately, they hadn't invented crisps yet in Ingary. Pity.

Perhaps he would have to. Howell wondered with some amusement what Chrestomanci would have to say about changing culinary history in another world.

With his sandwich gone and belly full if vaguely queasy from all the grease, Howell settled into his blankets and wondered what else he could do for entertainment today. He was bored of harassing Michael, and his apprentice was not going to tolerate much more of it. Calcifer couldn't move from the hearth, and the only way he'd have any hope of getting Sophie to come upstairs was if Michael was gone.

"Michael!" Howell shouted, ringing the bell. His apprentice appeared in 45 seconds, after a slow and reluctant plod up the stairs. Howell counted. Michael's lips and fingers were shiny with the grease of his own sandwich.

"Yes, Howl?" he asked, sounding tired.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Have I interrupted your lunch?" Howell sounded all too delighted for the apology to be sincere.

Michael looked as if he were going to give a smart answer for a moment, but in the end, his shoulders drooped and he just sighed. "What do you need, Howl?"

Howell waved the list at him. "I thought you might like to go see your Lettie today." The young man perked up immediately, his half-eaten lunch forgotten. "Shall I add some baked goods to the list?" Howell said, thinking aloud.

"Nevermind," Michael said, enthusiastically. "I'll just ask her what's good today. She always gives me something to take home."

"Ah, the advantages of courting a baker."

"Chocolatier," Michael corrected. "She wants to specialise in the confections when she's done."

Howell considered on second thought, marrying into the Hatter family might not be _so_ terribly bad. "Chocolate sounds delightful. See what she can do."

His apprentice nodded, taking the list. "And shall I ask about homes for in the village?"

Howell considered this. "I don't think there's any reason to start an official inquiry, but if you see any signs posted, or if your Lettie knows of anything..." he nodded, indicating this would be fine.

"Okay!" Michael chirped cheerfully, and turned to flee the castle.

"Michael!" Howell called after him. This was the exact sort of reason why male animals in rut were always being picked off by some large predator or other. Testosterone was hazardous to a man's health.

"Yes?" His apprentice's head appeared in the doorway, looking much less resentful of the delay this time.

"The Witch," Howell warned him, and watched the temporarily-forgotten fear return to the young man's face. "You'll need to be careful. Take one of the disguises."

But Michael was still frightened. "Will that be enough, you think?"

"I'll add a misdirection spell. It should be fine. She's not looking for you. But if you run into trouble, you know what to do." Michael nodded, solemn. Howell had taught him a spell that was the equivalent of an emergency flare long ago, just in case. "But I don't expect you'll have any trouble. I wouldn't move us to Market Chipping if I still thought the Witch had any interests there. I think she was satisfied with a job ill done when she cursed Sophie." He waved a hand at Michael, shooing him. "Now go on. Enjoy your Lettie."

Michael blushed a little and made a face. "That doesn't sound quite proper, Howl." Howell lay back on his mountain of pillows and pretended not to have heard. "Be back soon," Michael said softly, as if he were trying not to wake him.

Howell thought being ill really was the best excuse for most anything. He heard his apprentice go bouncing down the stairs, and then a murmur of voices as he no doubt explained to Sophie where he was going. The door shut behind Michael a minute later.

It seemed proper to Howell to wait a certain amount of time before he began his harassment of Sophie. It would hopefully lure her into a false sense of security and make things more fun later. Oddly, however, things did not quiet downstairs after Michael left.

Howell heard the sounds of quite a mess being made and wondered if Sophie had decided to clean again, or if she'd perhaps suddenly chosen to become a one-woman brass band. Then it sounded as though she were throwing things at the walls while muttering to herself.

He was curious what she was up to, but to ask would ruin his plans for general harassment. While deciding which he preferred, Howell's body was wracked by a most violent sneeze, and he wondered whether someone was cursing him again. He relaxed into his pillows and let his head swim for a bit. Apparently this cold was going to come with a headache. He could almost hear the pounding in his temples, but he felt too weak to go digging for aspirin. When Howell closed his eyes, he drifted into a restless sleep.

He dreamed he'd come down to breakfast in his dressing gown again, and Calcifer had laughed at him. Howell checked himself over but could not find what was so funny. He turned to yell at Calcifer to geroff it, only to find the fire demon perched at a long table, wearing a top hat with the size label tucked askew into the ribbon. He looked like...

"The Mad Hatter?" Howell asked in his dream.

"It's time for tea, you know," Calcifer told him. "And have you met my wife?" He motioned to the chair next to him in which Sophie was suddenly sitting. But it wasn't Sophie. It was some monstrous mishmash of Sophie and Violet's fire demon.

"Do sit down," Lettie told him, motioning to a chair. Howell was somewhat taken aback at her long, white rabbit ears and the accompanying one-piece, strapless bathing suit topped off by a cotton tail. "It's Tuesday, you know," she said, winking at him.

In the way you sometimes do in dreams, Howell found himself sitting in a chair without having sat down. The chair was hard and uncomfortable, as if the seat were made of metal.

"It's rude not to accept," Calcifer scolded him, oddly.

Howell found he couldn't summon any more words in response.

"What's wrong?" Not-Sophie asked him, leaning forward to pour his tea, which came out of the queer, mushroom-shaped teapot thick as mud. "Can't you**speak**?" She stressed the last word, as if it were a cue.

A tall teapot further down the table that had been painted to look like the moving castle rattled a bit, and the top was pushed off by someone inside. A tiny Ben Sullivan poked his head out. Howell had no clue how he knew it was Ben Sullivan, for he had the head of a dog. His fur was white as snow, his ears a rusty crimson, like tainted blood. "Bow wow," he said very precisely and distinctly, as if addressing the House of Lords. "Bow wow."

"It's Tuesday, you know," Lettie said again, and smiled before reaching over to lay her hand on Howell's knee. He jerked away in surprise - or would have, but found he couldn't move. The hard metal chair on which he was sitting seemed to have sprouted shackles on the armrests, and Howell was fastened in.

"Off with his head!" came the sound of Violet's voice from behind him. Howell tried to turn round to face her, but just as he saw a blurry shape in the corner of his eye, someone caught him by the throat and pushed him back into the chair, fastening a collar-like restraint to keep him from moving.

With a growing feeling of dread, Howell realised the back of the chair only went up to his neck. He looked up to see it was Sophie buckling him into the collar. Just Sophie this time, the expression on her lovely young face almost beatific as she completed her task.

"Time to switch!" Calcifer called, and everyone else changed seats except Sophie, who stayed beside Howell's chair and folded her hands, smiling sweetly. Even Ben changed teapots. Howell's eyes were inexplicably riveted to the sight of his delicate little hound's feet tip-toeing across the dubiously-stained tablecloth.

The sense memory of Violet taking measurements of his head while he slept returned to him, and Howell knew he was about to be decapitated.

"Off with his head!" the Witch's voice repeated just out of sight, unnecessarily. "Off with his head!" She sounded like a cassette recording.

"I love you, Howell Jenkins," Sophie sighed, sliding into his lap and taking his face in her hands. But she wasn't Sophie any longer. She was Miss Angorian. As she leaned in to kiss him, Howell felt the cold steel of the axe bite into his throat.

He awoke in a cold sweat, struggling to keep down his lunch. Fortunately, upon waking Howell could not remember much of what he'd dreamed, just that it had involved the Witch and her fire demon, and some hallucinogenic references to Lewis Carroll. He groaned. Fever dreams were just an added bonus to being ill.

Now he was even more determined to get Sophie up to his room. Howell had no desire to be alone all of a sudden. So he tried moaning again in pain, a bit louder. Nothing. He executed a loud, hollow-sounding cough that would have made any mother come running. But Sophie was not a mother, after all. Howell tried sneezing. Still naught. He blew his nose, not just to get her attention, but because he needed it. He did magically enhance the volume, however. Yet there was no sound of Sophie stirring downstairs. Perhaps she had fallen asleep in her chair.

Howell was determined to wake her up. He performed a sound spell to recreate all of the noises he had just made in a repetitive loop which became louder each time, and sped up so that the sounds began to overlap one another. Like the odious alarm clock of his roommate at university, this could not possibly let her sleep for long. To add his own melodramatic flair and perhaps an extra bit of guilt for ignoring him, Howell took up a litany of exhausted wailing, like a child who has nearly cried himself out. He laid his wrist to his forehead like an abandoned damsel in distress, noticing he still had a fever. Perhaps Sophie would come upstairs with a nice, hot argument and help him sweat it out of his system.

But when the sounds went on for so long and became so loud that the house was beginning to tremble with the noise and there was still no sign of Sophie, Howell wondered if he had underestimated her hard-heartedness. She _had_ wished this cold on him, after all.

Finally he heard her muttering irritably to herself downstairs, and then the glorious sound of two feet and a stick hobbling up the stairs. "Really, these wizards!" she grumbled for his benefit as Sophie reached the top of the stairs. "You'd think no one had ever had a cold before!" Howell thought that was easy to say when you were not the one struggling to breathe around the flem in your chest.

To get her back, he decided to play a game with her—and with himself. If Howell could manage to keep her attention on himself the entire time she was in his room so that Sophie did not notice his window to Wales, he would steal a kiss from her as soon as he was well. If however, Sophie noticed the window…well, she would not notice. Howell was nothing if not distracting—even his fashion-criticising nephew would have agreed with that.

Presently, Sophie appeared in the doorway and hobbled in only a step or two. "Well, what is it?" she asked, rudely. Howell decided to forgive her. She had come upstairs, after all.

"I'm dying of boredom," he whined like the pathetic ten-year-old he felt. When this did not elicit a response from her, he made a tragic face and added, "Or maybe just dying."

He must have looked as bad as he felt, and for once Howell did not mind, for Sophie took a long look at him and her expression softened to one of concern. She hobbled over to the bedside and reached out to lay a soft, wrinkly palm on his forehead.

Howell's chest felt strange. He wondered if Sophie realised this was the first time she'd touched him of her own accord. The time previous it had been merely treating him as an object to be cleaned, when she and Michael had been scrubbing the slime off him. "You do have a bit of a fever," she said, taking her hand away.

Howell could not resist playing up to her concern. "I'm delirious," he moaned. "Spots are crawling before my eyes."

"Those are spiders," she snapped, not falling for it. "Why can't you cure yourself with a spell?"

She seemed in such a hurry to get back downstairs to her sewing. Howell was not about to let her, not to mention he was put out with her for not feeling sorry for him anymore. "Because there _is_ no cure for a cold," he told her, testily. And then, because he really was somewhat delirious, Howell began to babble at her in a stream-of-consciousness manner.

"Things are going round and round in my head—or maybe my head is going round and round in things." Apparently, Lewis Carroll had not yet done with his mind. Talking about his head nearly triggered a memory of his dream, but it was gone before Howell could properly fix on it, and just as well. "I keep thinking of the terms of the Witch's curse," he went on, admitting the rest only because he was so ill and not quite conscious of what he was saying. "I hadn't realised she could lay me bare like that."

And that was something he'd been avoiding thinking of ever since the curse had taken hold of him. It was one of the most brilliant executions of a curse Howell had ever heard of, much less witnessed first-hand. It was so well-fitted to the victim, and seeped in through nearly all the chinks in his armour so that he may as well not have been wearing any at all.

He supposed he deserved that, having opened himself at all to a lover who was a powerful witch. She had used everything she could against him, including his own family. "It's a bad thing to be laid bare," he went on, depressed, "even though the things that are true so far are all my own doing."

And that was the worst part. It was as if he'd cursed himself. "I keep waiting for the rest to happen." Howell felt almost resigned.

Sophie seemed to consider this. "What things? 'Tell me where all past years are?'"

As if that were the hard bit. "Oh, I know that," he replied, assured that she was still too busy puzzling it out to notice the window view. "My own, or anyone else's."

So often, when approached from a magical perspective, silly philosophical questions had very simple answers. Philosophy was all well and good for sitting around discussing with your mates in an attempt to looking brilliant for the ladies at hand, but in truth it had always seemed to Howell philosophers asked only the silliest questions with the most obvious answers. But perhaps that was merely his genius magician's mind at work.

"They're all there, just where they always were. I could go and play bad fairy at my own christening, if I wanted." Howell realised after the fact what an unfortunate metaphor he'd chosen, as Neil's words came back to him. He supposed comparing himself to either Thornrose or the bad fairy were not exactly flattering to his masculinity.

"Maybe I did, and that's my trouble," he finished, glumly, switching gears. It was the sort of dramatic appearance and performance that would appeal to Howell, actually. He hoped he had not done it to himself in the future in the midst of some sort of midlife crisis.

From the look on her face, Howell could see he would have to explain to Sophie what he meant before she went on guessing lines of the poem to see which one it was. After all, he wasn't allowed to talk about the first. "No, there are only three things I'm waiting for: the mermaids, the mandrake root, and the wind to advance an honest mind." And he added, as an afterthought, "And whether I get white hairs, I suppose, only I'm not going to take the spell off to see."

Howell would be damned if she robbed him of his vanity as well as everything else. He was not about to stand for being turned into a senior citizen as Sophie had done. As he spoke, Howell did the figures in his head, fitting the curse in time she could reckon. "There's only about three weeks left for them to come true in, and the Witch gets me as soon as they do." Howell was gratified to see Sophie's expression change to one of worry out the corner of his eye. "But the Rugby Club Reunion is Midsummer Eve, so I shall get to that, at least." His old school chums would not see him brought low. "The rest had all happened long ago."

Sophie cut into his thinking aloud, asking just the things he had been trying to prevent her asking. "You mean the falling star and never being able to find a woman true and fair?" Howell was thinking of the best way to distract her onto a different topic, when Sophie's jealousy pushed her onto a tangent without his help. "I'm not surprised, the way you go on. Mrs. Pentstemmon told me you were going to the bad. She was right, wasn't she?"

It hurt Howell to hear Mrs. Pentstemmon had finally seen to his black, worthless inner core and had warned Sophie against him. So that was why she had sent him from the room. He could only hope her last thoughts of him had not all been of this ilk.

Then again, perhaps it was just what he deserved. "I must go to her funeral if it kills me." He owed her that much after everything she'd done for him. Not to mention it was his fault she'd been killed. Perhaps Mrs. Pentstemmon had finally realised what sort of man he was, only too late. "Mrs. Pentstemmon always thought far too well of me," Howell mused, overcome with so many fond memories of her encouragements of him when he had just been starting out, all the difficult times he'd had those last years of secondary after his father died. She'd looked for the good in him when Howell was half-tempted himself to give up on his education and do whatever it took to get by on his own.

Suddenly it seemed Mrs. Pentstemmon had taught him every good thing Howell knew. "I blinded her with my charm." She had liked him from the beginning, when all he had were some poorly-constructed lies and his good looks--which were not so very good back then.

Howell did not know whether it was everything coming down on him at once, or some mental weakness prompted by his illness, but he genuinely began to cry. Mrs. Pentstemmon was gone; the only woman apart from his mother who'd ever believed in him in spite of himself. Even Howell didn't believe in himself.

His tears seemed unable, however, to evoke any sympathy from Sophie. "I was talking about the way you keep dropping ladies as soon as you've made them love you," she said, sternly, her tone reminding him of Miss Angorian in a way he did not like at all. "Why do you _do_ it?" she asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

Motivation he could answer easily enough. Howell pointed to the spiders busily spinning over his head. "That's why I love spiders. 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again.'" Far too many faces from his past were summoned up by the words. None of them had worked out, and most of them he'd treated quite badly. He remembered Mrs. Pentstemmon's words to him two days ago and felt duly ashamed of himself. Perhaps it was the way Sophie was looking at him, as well.

"I keep trying," he went on, "But I brought it on myself by making a bargain some years ago." All the same, he did not regret it. Howell could admit he was selfish and wish the consequences to himself and his own future had not been so severe, but he would not have traded Calcifer for having his heart back, though without it his chances of success were practically nil. "And I know I shall never be able to love anyone properly now," he finished, scrubbing half-heartedly at his eyes with the lace cuff of his nightgown.

All he could see of Sophie through the tears was a blur, but it bent over him and half reached out, as if uncertain what to do at the sight of a grown man crying. "Now, you mustn't cry--" Her attempt at comfort was derailed as she heard a noise in the hall. Was Michael back already? Howell hadn't felt him pass through the wards again. Something knee-high came into the room, and Howell blinked the tears away to see better. Sophie bent down, apparently unafraid of whatever it was, and was soon backed against the far wall, dashing Howell's hopes of receiving a bit of maternal comfort from her.

"What's this?" he asked, blinking in confusion at an Irish Setter which stared balefully back at him from where it leaned against Sophie's legs.

"My new dog," she told him, looking guilty. Sophie was one of the worst liars in the history of time. But Howell could not tell precisely _what_ she was lying about this time. Perhaps she was attempting to protect Michael. But Howell would have thought Michael would have said something to him if he'd taken in a stray. Michael used to be good about things like that. Perhaps his encroaching adolescence was making him more and more dishonest. Howell supposed he only had himself to blame for setting a bad example on that account.

As he was working this out, Sophie went strangely quiet. Too late, Howell saw she had finally noticed the window. Damn. And he'd been doing so well, too. He might have been able to play it off, but just as he was thinking of a topic to distract her, Mari came running out of the house followed by Megan, to play on the swing set. "Is that the place called Wales?" Sophie asked, rather needlessly.

Caught, all Howell could do was laugh and beat the covers in frustration. He'd been so close! "Bother that dog!" Howell swore, his voice sounding more like Sophie's brittle crackle than his own. "I had a bet on with myself that I could keep you from snooping out of the window all the time you were in here!" In its defense, the dog looked back at him almost apologetically.

"Did you now?" Sophie glowered at him and let go of the dog's coat very deliberately, as if she expected something to happen. Nothing did. The dog seemed determined not to leave the room unless she went with it. Howell did not like that much.

But from the look on Sophie's face, he wasn't sure he could endure her wrath if she stayed, either. "So all that song and dance was just a game, was it?"

Howell's face fell. This sort of thing was why he did not like to tell the truth. Now he'd lost her sympathy all together - what little of it he'd secured - merely because he'd admitted to having had some fun with her. Perhaps she thought he was the sort of actor who could cry on cue. Howell was a good liar and an excellent actor, but he could, in fact, not.; one of the downsides to having no heart. He saw it was no good trying to explain that to Sophie, however.

"I might have known!" And there it was, proof of her faithlessness in him. She did not seem to expect anything of Howell but lies and insincerity. He fell back onto his pillows, looking hurt.

Why was it only all or nothing with these women? Couldn't they see the world wasn't black and white, but many many shades of grey? Just because he enjoyed a good prank did not mean he was incapable of being serious. Just because he lied well and often did not mean he never told the truth. Not to mention every liar knew the best lie revolved around a very solid truth.

But these innocent holier-than-thous who pretended to avoid lies on moral principle did not seem to understand that. He supposed he could not have expected it from a terrible liar like Sophie. "Sometimes you sound just like Megan," he told her, knowing what a great insult it was and feeling too petty just now to care.

Howell wondered again if he could stomach living with a Megan-clone for the rest of his life. Even one who was a strawberry blond bombshell.

"Sometimes I understand how Megan got to be the way she is!" Sophie shot back, apparently understanding quite well that she'd just been insulted. She took her dog and left, slamming the door hard enough to knock several precariously balanced books from the shelf. Howell was left to himself and his self-pity. He watched Mari playing on the swing set and dabbed at his teary eyes in silence.

When Neil came out to complain his after school snack wasn't ready yet and Megan finally dragged his niece back inside, Howell cast about for something else to do. He wondered if he should apologise to Sophie for playing a trick on her. But no, he didn't feel he should have to. It hadn't worked, after all, and he'd confessed it quite plainly. Why did she have to take everything as an offense?

Howell could just imagine her on their wedding night, slapping his hands away because she felt he was being inappropriate. What a miserable honeymoon that would be…


End file.
